King of Secrets: A Thief's Odyssey
by Spikey44
Summary: Damned if you do, damned if you don't. The early years of Remy Lebeau from his exile from Guild and family through his servitude with Sinister and his accidental joining of the X-Men circa X-Men 1. Reposting of previous story, some new material.
1. Chapter 1

King of Secrets: A thief's odyssey

_Disclaimer: All known and recognisable characters, names and places property of Marvel; I am just playing with them._

_A/N: Hello; This is a re-posting of a story that I started but could not finish, however recently I have been re-inspired to breathe new life into the story and finish it and I will be posting chapters once more at regular intervals. Once upon a time there were people who read and enjoyed this story before I tore it down unfinished and I do apologise for that, if they are out there still I hope they come back, if not, c'est la vie, it can't be helped. _

* * *

Part One: Remy Lebeau welcome to the end of your world

People say it's normal to be nervous on your wedding day. It's normal to be happy on your birthday. It's probably considered normal to be happy and nervous if it's your wedding and birthday.

I may not be the best judge of normal. Me and normal not having much cause to talk, but I'm going out on a limb and saying that I don't think it's normal for a man to feel like I do now, not when he just turn eighteen and be preparing for his nuptials.

I think today is the day I die; Dramatic, no, Melodramatic even. I got a feeling, like a cancer gnawing inside me. Nothing good is going to come of this day; nothing.

Belle knows. If I know anything it's how that femme thinks. She's scared, which is probably why a routine pinch for the guild ended up in a double homicide because I brought my dearly beloved with me.

Strippers, hand-cuffs, gallons of booze? No, I spent my 'last night of freedom' as a bachelor decapitating and removing the hands and identifying clothing from the corpses of two dumb security jerks without the brains to run when they had the chance and dumping them in good 'Ol' Man River'.

Like I say, normal's really not my forte. The post corpse removal sex was magnifique though. I know, not supposed to see the bride before the wedding, but as Belle and me have been betrothed for the last ten years that tradition seemed a little - redundant.

'Belle – you didn't have to shoot them!'

Running over to the bodies leaking brain fluid all over the floor and all I can think is, what will Henri say about this? This is no way to make a pinch. Damn it why in hell did I say Belle could come with me?

'They were drawing their weapons.'

She looks fastidiously down at the corpses, just a couple of blue collar slobs; bald, fat, no ambition, no prospects….especially not now they dead.

'They security and we're robbing the place what did you expect them to do? Roll out the red carpet?' The bodies don't bother me, and I know that Belle is a professional, silencer was on; she was careful how and where she shot them. It's just the principle of the thing; thieves don't kill.

I must have said it out loud because Belle skewers me with an angry violet glare, 'But assassins do.'

We speak French to one another most often, don't know why. The Guilds mostly speak English – the language of commerce and all that. But French - French is the language of love.

Funny that I'm reviewing last night's memories, funny that I'm thinking about love. Do I love Belle? I guess so. It a weird question to be asking myself now, non? Not like it matters anyhow; this wedding, me and Belle, it's never been about love. It's always been about politics…….and about survival.

I met and became fast friends with Belle two whole years before I became a Lebeau. Back then I was just 'Remy', though mostly it was 'Diable' or the more formal 'Le Diable Blanc', though I answered to 'you filthy little brat', 'cur', 'sumabitch' and other names that kids on the streets get called all the time.

But this lil' street thief accidentally saved the daughter of Marius Boudreaux from his greatest inter-clan rival and got himself the attention of both the assassins and the thieves Guilds; made myself a helluva friend as well.

Do I love Belle? It's not about love. What the hell good is love anyway? Don't keep you warm and fed does it? Don't save you from getting your ass kicked by your rabidly psychotic soon-to- be brother-in-law neither, oui?

'Henri, Julien is never gon just let dis wedding go 'head.'

Trailing after my big brother, trying to pull on my clothes at the same time, (Not the best time to try and have a reasonable, adult conversation with Henri. Why did I think that seducing the cute, but undeniably sluttish, daughter of a potential client was a good idea; especially while Henri was in the other room with said client trying to hash out the deal).

'You don have to worry about Julien; leave Boudreaux to us.'

Henri turns to glare at me, looking like a really angry Humpty-Dumpty with his bald pate and thick frame. 'All you have to _do_ is de _girl_.' A curl of the lip as I fumble with my open fly, 'Stick to what you're good at Remy. Leave de politics to us.'

Henri; brother by adoption, heir apparent to Clan Lebeau, he never been my greatest admirer; figured out right quick to cut my losses with him. He was never going to see me as anything other than a tool.

_Stick to what you're good at Remy._

Wine, women and wagering; getting so crazy drunk that the whole world is nothing but a wet kaleidoscope of colours and movement, go dancing and let the music take me over until I can see the notes in the air, twisting like cigarette smoke. Go rutting and screwing around until I can't walk straight and wait for my wedding day. The payoff; the day I earn my keep and get to feel like I earned the last name Jean-Luc gave me.

Today is that day; today I eighteen and today me and Belle become the glue that paste over the cracks between the two guilds.

But there a tiny little whisper in the back of my head: _You never asked to be adopted. You don't owe anyone anything._ I been bought and sold for the future of the Guilds, but what do I really owe them? Don't I have some say in my own life?

'Why can't we run? You don know what Julien's like, Remy. I don want to see you dead on my wedding day.'

Belle sitting up in the back of the stolen convertible acting as our 'getaway/corpse disposal' vehicle of choice and pulling her bra back on. Purple with see-through panels; always hated the colour, but she loves it. It sure does suits her though.

'Not planning to die, Belle, dat wouldn' fit de plan, would it, now.' I say lighting the cigarette. I hate this post coital talking women seem to get into. Never could figure out why they always get so chatty after the event; what's left to talk about, huh?

'Remy for the love of god, don' be so stupid; t'ink wit' your brain for once.' She gives me a hard pinch down where I prefer the femmes to be gentle.

'All dat matters is dat de wedding is ratified by de guilds. An' dat de Assassins an' de T'ieves are legally bound by truce under de eyes of Candra. After de ceremony dere be no need for either of us to be alive.'

I stare out of the window shield and deliberately don't look at her. Her eyes are on me, silently pleading with me to do – something – anything, who knows? I surely don't.

'I know dat, Belle. But my Papa din't go to all dat trouble to civilise me jus' to let me die.'

Belle snorts a laugh, 'Your _Papa,' _she snarls the words, 'jus' wants you to knock me up an produce a _real _heir to both de Assassins an' de T'ieves Guilds. Spreading your mutie genes don' hurt none neither.'

_Mutie genes. Red eyed freak. Devil with an angels smile. Foundling. T'ief. Lover. Husband?_

'Remy!'

Bedroom door slams open and Tante Mattie barrels in the room. I can see her under the fold of bed sheets over my head. 'Get your skinny lil butt out o' dat dere bed, boy. Dere be t'ings to be doin.'

She grabs the blankets and tears them off me. 'Hey!'

That I'm naked not a concern to her, she just throws a towel and robe at me. 'Go get showered. We got to give you a haircut.' She brandishes a pair of scissors with obvious glee.

Haircuts; I hate hair cuts. Having a full head of hair has multiple advantages, keeps your head warm when you sleeping rough at night and it help you hide when you don't trust your expression to behave. Plus people always remember hair style before they remember faces; perfect camouflage. I make a promise to myself: after today no more haircuts. I'm going to be able to sit on my hair before I cut it again.

'Tante?' Snip, snip; there goes the hair.

'What is it, chile?'

'I had a dream las' night.'

Never tell anyone about my dreams except Tante. I only tell Tante because the woman knows everything about anything anyway. Plus she believes in dreams, signs, portents; it comes with the territory when you're a Traiteur, a healer, who can damn near bring back the dead.

'What you dream about, chile.' Her old, bony fingers brush hair from my face and shoulders, a thinly veiled caress. She can't be seen to be giving a thief preferential treatment but I know she cares.

Open my mouth but no sound comes out. Try again and this time I do speak but not what I planned to say. 'What am I good for Tante; why did Jean-Luc pick me, dere are plenty other street kids to take in; better t'ieves, better sons to have.'

The confession hurts. It and other traitorous thoughts like it are the things I try to drown in sex and Zydeco. You never let an opportunity slip by you and you never ask yourself if you deserve something good that happens, if you do the person giving it to you might too – then where you be: cold, hungry, and forced to turn tricks on the streets because you can't find a mark, that's where.

Tante don't say anything for a spell. Then she leans over me as I sit on the bed and kisses the top of my head. 'Can't answer dat question for you, chile. Only you can do dat.'

I sigh and nod. Typical cryptic crap, but then I'm just as glad she didn't ask me why I asked the question. Better to ignore the whole thing. Sit back and enjoy the ride.

'I tell you dis, chile. Don ask me how I know, you ain't never believe me if I tell you.' She smiles, skin creasing in a thousand deep set lines, as beautiful as a sun rise over the Mississippi. She meets my eyes in the mirror on the dresser across the room as she speak:

'Dere is love in you enough to save de worl' boy, not de Devil hisself take dat from you.'

I laugh out loud as much in surprise by how serious she sounds and to the ludicrousness of the statement. 'Fat lot o' good dat gon do me. Or de Guild.' I shake my head. 'Least you could say is dat I make a good t'ief.'

Tante looks sad for a moment in the reflection from the mirror. Something in her expression makes me ashamed for laughing. I brought up the topic, after all. So I turn around to look at her proper and drop a kiss on her withered old cheek.

'Don know 'bout de worl', Tante, but you know I love you, right?' After all who in their right mind wouldn't love a woman who provided hot food and shelter to all the street children of New Orleans who need it?

Tante smiles again, 'Oui, Remy chile, I know dat.'

* * *

_Fencing? What de hell good is dat? _

_It teach you poise and discipline, boy. Now En Garde!_

Note to self. Next time you decide to go get married, Remy Lebeau do NOT kill your brother-in-law during the reception! At least wait until after the honeymoon.

They look so flimsy and weak, those rapiers do. Fencing is a sport not a means of murder. So when Julien gets up half way through the reception like he going to give a speech and challenges me to a dual of honour I just thought the whole thing was a joke.

The rapier didn't look so silly when it slid right between Julien's ribs, when it popped out the other side of him, non, no joke in that. There wasn't much blood until I pulled the blade out either. I shouldn't have worn a white shirt. Didn't know so much blood could come from such a small hole.

I drop my sword. I know, I know, you never drop your weapon. That's a sure way of getting yourself killed. Except it not me whose dead. Julien is dead.

Julien is dead. I just killed him. It was pathetically easy. Why were we so afraid of him? For so many years, the monster that haunted Belle's dreams and did things to her that no brother should do to his sister. All this time and all it took was one little prick with a skinny little fencing sword and - bang – no more Julien.

Strong arms grab hold of me. There be lots of yelling, none of it happy. Belle standing there in her white dress covered in dollar bills, as is our tradition, no expression on her face. Her eyes glowing with some emotion I don't have words for.

'Remy what have you done. You stupid - '

Henri. He says something more but I can't hear him. There's a roaring in my ears. This is different from the two security guards last night. I wasn't responsible for them. It's me with blood on my hands this time. Why does that make a difference I wonder?

Things get kind of blurry. Lot more yelling, lot of angry faces twisted in anger, I remember Marius Boudreaux snarling for vengeance – but then he always snarling about something. I try to find Belle but then it all go to hell. Thieves and Assassins in their wedding finery picking up whatever they can get their hands on to use as a weapon. Somebody knocks the wedding cake over. It goes splat on the floor under the white silk marquee.

I don't know why but something about that big old cake all over the floor, the little plastic bride and groom trampled underfoot – mon dieu – it actually scare me and I can't even say why.

Everything happening so fast I can't keep up; bodies hustling me away from Belle, bless her, but I think she tries to help me, to come after me. I get taken down to the 'cold room'. The thieves own dungeon above ground; can't have cellars in the bayou, comprende vous?

Hatch is opened and I'm dropped forcibly down into the concrete cage. Door clangs closed and I'm left in the small space, no light, few holes for air. Darkness so complete even I struggle to see. Not that there be much to see.

_Congratulations Remy Lebeau. This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life. Who knew it would be your last?_

* * *

I don't know how long I'm shut up in here. Figure it's at least twenty-four hours – maybe more. Feels like more. Get really, really cold. Monstrously hungry but then you don't spend ten years of your life living off of the streets and not get used to being cold and hungry. Still I lose the knack of ignoring hunger after eight years of plenty.

Nothing to do but think, and lord knows I hate that. There's dried blood all over my hands. For a few hours the smell of the blood in the tight, empty darkness was almost enough to break me. Then it dried and didn't smell so much; ended up smelling of copper pennies.

I keep asking myself, what happens now? Sure Marius not going to be best pleased with me for killing his son but everyone knew he challenged me, plus he's nuts. That's well known.

Was the treaty ratified? Jean-Luc and Henri had closeted themselves away with the Harvest Master and the Tithe Collector as well as the Benefactress when I was out on the front lawn killing Julien.

Damn it. Couldn't even get through the day, couldn't give my Papa four hours to get the contracts signed. I failed. The one thing I was brought into clan Lebeau to do and I failed. The only responsibility I was ever given and I ruin it in spectacular fashion.

Bravo, Remy, bravo, you going down in history as the Guild's biggest fuck up; that quite some achievement, there.

Why won't anyone come? Surely Papa knows it was an accident?

_Just like Genevieve was an accident? Just like Etienne was an accident; they dead too, because Remy Lebeau is good for nothing but trouble. _How many accidental deaths can a body be responsible for before the blame starts to stick? When does an accident stop being an accident?

I heard the rumours of course. The whispers about me; Le Diable Blanc with the red burning eyes: evil, mutant, the Fated One. Was I death come to wreak chaos and ill-fortune on Clan Lebeau? Sure was beginning to look that way.

I'm sorry Papa. Dear God – Belle! God but I'm sorry Belle. You were right, you were so right. We should have run. _You_ should have run. Should never have agreed to tie yourself to the likes of me.

When this is all smoothed over I'll make it up to you, Belle, ma cherie. We'll hit the road, have us an extended honeymoon. Vegas! We'll take on Sin City and then maybe head on over to Los Angeles - always wanted to break one of them Star's Homes.

It will be alright. None of this is my fault. Not really. Jean-Luc will sort it out. Even Henri won't let the Assassins do anything too rash. The Truce has to hold. They need me for that. Don't they?

Yes, they need me, but more than that. I'm a Lebeau. Maybe I wasn't born one. Maybe I've only been one for eight years now, but I'm still Jean-Luc Lebeau's son. The one he _chose. _

My family will protect me. It will all work out in the end. Everything will be sorted out. Too much effort gone in to the truce to see it broken now, I know that my Papa and my brother will do anything to save the truce. And they need me for that. They need me.

Sure is dark in here. Quiet too. Wonder how long I'll have to wait? Won't be long now, it will all be sorted out; just got to wait it out. Jean-Luc will fix everything. Just like always.

* * *

'I Tithe Collector for the Guilds of New Orleans stand in judgement of one Remy Etienne Lebeau on behalf of the Guilds ever beneficent Benefactress Candra.'

The tall cadaverous man drones on. I try to listen, try not to make a fool of myself in front of the most powerful and influential men from both the Thieves and Assassins Guilds.

I don't look towards Jean-Luc in his Patriarch garb or Henri shrouded in traditional thieves cowl at his side. They don't look at me either, not one word have they said to me.

Forty-two hours of solitary confinement in the 'cold room', nine hours of interrogation by the Thieves Council. _Did you deliberately provoke a fight with Julien? De man is a master swordsman - how did you break his guard? Did you have help?_

Then eleven hours in the hands of the assassins, tied to a table while they scraped broken bamboo sticks down my chest. Bamboo slithers rammed under my finger nails. Jean-Luc - Papa – watched. He watched them torture me, because justice had to be seen to be done. Justice. Would they have gone to this fuss if Julien had killed _me_?

No food. Little bit of water. No sleep. Not even allowed to see Belle, make sure she okay. Now I got to stand here pretending my knees aren't about to give way while these old men pass judgement over me.

'It is the judgement of the immortal and wise Candra that the Pact of Truce be maintained as was ordained through the marriage of one Thief to one Assassin. The great houses of Boudreaux and Lebeau must agree to make sacrifice for that Truce.'

_Sacrifice? _What's that supposed to mean? Haven't I paid enough already? I try to catch my Papa's eye but his face is in shadow under his thick red velvet hood. Henri meets my eye though. The look he give me chills my blood. It's like he don't even see me – just looks right through me.

'Marius Boudreaux has lost his son and heir. The Boudreaux clan agree that this sacrifice was necessary for the greater good of the Guilds. But such a lost as this demands acknowledgment, demands equal recompense from clan Lebeau.'

I listening as hard as I can. I speak three and half languages me (Japanese giving me some trouble, okay?) but I can't get the words the Tithe Collector saying to make sense to me.

I don't know what happening around me while I stand here in chains in the centre of the candle lit inner chamber of Tithe Collector's mansion, stuck between a thief and an assassin who play my gaolers, assassins and thieves ranked all over backing into the ante chambers like flocks of vultures looking down on me. I try to figure out what's coming, what they going to do to me and then my Papa steps forward and pulls down his hood.

'I Jean-Luc Lebeau Patriarch of de New Orleans Thieves Guild acknowledge de grievous loss my compeer Marius Boudreaux has suffered for the sake of lasting peace.'

_Grievous loss? Yeah right, he better off without that psychotic lil' batard. What is Papa doing? It was self-defence – Julien was the one in the wrong. We - Clan Lebeau – should be the ones demanding damages!_

Papa pauses, draws a breath, I know that posture, those mannerisms, he going to do something he don't much want to do.

'In light of this and in accord with de edicts dictated by our mutual benefactress Candra, I accept de judgement meted out by dis court. From dis day forth I have but one son. Marius has lost a son and I too sacrifice my youngest child in recompense for de loss of his eldest.'

_No! _I surge forward in my restraints and don't even realise I've spoken out loud until the guards grab me and try to shove a rubber ball gag into my mouth.

I charge the thing before it's half way round the back of my head. Charge the restraints too. One guard goes flying across the chamber, clothes on fire, when I spit the charged gag at him.

Assassins fire their plasma guns but I'm pure motion. They couldn't hit me in a month of Sundays. Thieves surge forward but they not my friends either, know that now. I got nothing to charge so I steal their pocket change and the clasps from their cloaks as they come for me.

I'm good. I'm faster than anyone here. I can kick like a mule but there are near two hundred thieves and assassins packing this huge chamber and only one of me. I'm starving, sleep deprived. I take as many down as I can but the outcome's inevitable.

In less time than it takes to tell about it I'm flat on my back, being held down by red and black robed assassins and thieves and someone is pressing the barrel of a plasma gun to my forehead.

'Enough!' a swirl of red velvet cloak trimmed with black silk and a grim, lean aristocratic face appears above me, normally that face be refined and debonair but now just looks haggard. My Papa looks down on me like I'm already dead. He's grieving while I lay on the marble floor bleeding.

'Papa?' It's barely a whisper when I want to scream.

Jean-Luc grabs hold of me and pulls me to my feet. He grips my arms, grinding both my wrists together. 'Don you dare charge, Remy.' He whispers in my ear. I hadn't even realised my hands were still glowing.

'This boy is not my true blood son.' Jean-Luc bellows above the bloodthirsty snarls from the thieves and Assassins surging towards us.

'He is not of de Guilds by blood or lineage.' His words, as he pushes me through the crowds and back up to the dock, make me cringe. So this is it. This is how I die, with my whole world in tatters around me?

'I relinquish any hold on this boy but I demand dat the Guilds, both T'ief and Assassin grant dis boy his life. I brought him to the Guilds. I and I alone am responsible for his actions; let Remy live.'

Up-roar and fury all around us; I thought I knew what it felt like to be hated. I knelt with other people hating on me my whole life, but this, all that hate, all that rage.....it just make me feel cold and dead inside to know all that hate directed at me. I think I could have died then, everything I thought I was broken on the floor and drowned in all that hate. Then the Tithe Collector raises his hand for silence and the room slides into grudging quiet.

'Patriarch Lebeau makes a valid point. Candra has decreed that no more blood should be spilled from either thief or assassin. Hence forth the thief formally known as Remy Lebeau shall keep his life but will be banished from Clan Lebeau, from the Thieves Guild, and from all territory belonging to either the Thieves or Assassins Guilds in these United States of America.'

The Tithe Collector turns to look me straight in the eye. Sallow skin and long, equine face and I think, like I thought plenty of times before that he looks like a corpse, all skin and bone and fish eyed.

'You have twelve hours to gather whatever belongings Clan Lebeau permits you to take with you and to leave New Orleans. You return here at your own risk. Any Thief or Assassin that see's you anywhere or anytime within their territory has the full backing of the Benefactress to kill you. Do you understand?'

_No! No I don't. _I turn to my Papa – my former Papa – and Henri my once-brother, I want to scream at them. I want to ask them why? Why have they done this to me?

But I don't because I know; the Truce. It was always about the truce. I should have known from the very beginning. I should have run when Jean-Luc first swept me off the Rue Royale and told me, 'welcome to your new family, Remy _Lebeau.' _I should have known not to believe in it.

'Yes.' I say. 'I understand.' And it's done and dusted. This is the day Remy Lebeau dies. This is the day my world ends; happy birthday Remy, happy birthday to you.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two: Millstone Arizona; what's a boy to do?

'_Good evening this is the news at Eleven. Breaking news coming in, regarding the collapse of Nao Ling Banking Limited. The FBI have released a joint statement with the Miami PD._

_It appears that they are investigating claims of insider trading and have made a number of arrests. There are also unsubstantiated reports that the FBI are looking for a man believed to be in his early twenties, who was employed as a janitor at the Miami headquarters of the Banking firm, to help with their inquiries. What bearing this has on the on-going police investigation into the collapse of this multi-million dollar banking firm, is as yet, unknown. _

_Rumours that the collapse of Nao Ling Banking may be linked to a string of robberies and financial collapses among Nao Ling subsidiary companies has led some commentators to speculate that these incidences are in fact acts of industrial espionage perhaps perpetrated by Oriental crime syndicates, such as the Hand or Yakuza…….' _

The woman behind the bar looks up as I saunter in. She's pretty, I note, nice figure, broad kind of flat features make me think she's got native Indian blood in her somewhere, silky black hair. See her eyes widen just a little as I crack open the smile. Ah-ha there be something here to work with at least.

'Bonsoir,' I weigh in on the cheery side as I rest my forearms on the counter. Lordy but I'm tired. Miami was no joke.

'Noticed you got a help wanted sign in your window dere,' I jerk my thumb back at the small sign in the diner window.

'Yes are you interested?' She inquires.

She's looking me over. I can practically read her thoughts as she checks me out; mixture of interest and fear. I'm cute but I'm looking kind of rough round the edges. Could be I want the work or could be I'm going to draw a gun and hold up the joint. It's an accurate assumption, though I wouldn't use a gun. That would be too crude.

I make a point of giving her a slow once over, letting her get a hint of my eyes over the rim of my shades. I find it helps to get the mutie thing out of the way early. Either she'll freak out or fall for me. Never can tell which not until it too late either way.

'Very int'rested.' I flash another slower smile. This one is practically guaranteed to hit the spot.

The woman (though I use the term loosely, she can't be all that much older than me, maybe twenty-three to my eighteen and seven months) blushes just the slightest bit. 'I – it's not much money. And it's long hours.' She stammers.

'Dat's okay.' I purr, 'Not afraid of hard work, me.' That is a bare faced lie. I have absolutely no interest in doing anything even closely related to 'hard' or 'work' but she don't need to know that, oui?

'So you can cook?' She asks trying to be businesslike.

Cook? Never mind, just smile your way through it boy, 'Chere, I'm Cajun. Course I can cook.' Probably, hopefully: It's not like I _know_ that I _can't_ cook, right?

* * *

(Ring, ring - Riiiiiiiiggggg)

'……..'ello?'

(Robert this is Denby. Good work on the Nao Ling job.)

Robert? Oh, right Robert Lord, my working name: time to swallow that New Orleans yat, Remy boy. 'Nao Ling what's that?'

I sit up. Even half asleep in the middle of the night and I'm not stupid enough to be caught saying the name of a job out loud. What time is it anyway? Three am? What the hell is Denby doing phoning me at three in the freaking morning? That sorta thing oughta be illegal.

Laughter over the phone, (Good one Robert. My employers are impressed with your work. Especially the artful way you set up the frame for the C.E.O. Very dramatic the way the guy threw himself from the thirtieth floor window.)

What? Who did what? 'Somebody died?'

More chuckling (You should watch the news, my friend, or pick up a newspaper sometime. The Nao Ling collapse has made the Nationals.)

'Never read the papers, Denby, might learn something. Now what the hell do you want?'

(You get your money okay?)

'Most of it,' but not all of it, as you damn well know you slimy lil weasel of a fixer.

(Yeah about that, Robert, the last of the green is on its way, my man. By the way, how do you feel about one more job? My employers were very impressed and they wanted to know if you'd take on another job for triple your standard fee?)

'What's the catch?' Nobody offered triple the standard fee. It just wasn't done. But colour me curious let's see where this goes.

(Interested? Great! I've left the details for you at the postal box address you left. Speak soon, Ciao!)

'Hey! - wait - '

(Click)

'Shit.'

Ten past three in the morning, nothing for it but to go back to sleep; I stuff the cell phone under my pillow. At least the call didn't seem to have woken Clair.

'Remy?' Damn, spoke too soon. The living room light snaps on blinding me. Clair's voice floats from the doorway.

'Ummm, oui cherie?' Lift my head from the pillow and try to look like I've just woken up, which is technically true. 'Somet'ing wrong Clair?'

She frowns at me slightly perplexed, 'I thought I heard you talking to someone?' She looks around the living room suspiciously.

I give her my patented butter wouldn't melt grin, 'Don worry, ma cherie, din't bring no femmes home wit me dis time, learned my lesson.' And now bat my eyelashes and voila. See her mouth twitch in a slight smile.

'Good.' She crosses her arms mock stern. 'My couch is for sitting on not fornication. I send you out to Wal-mart for a pound of potatoes and you come back with the checkout girl.'

I laugh out loud, can't help myself. That was a fun day. Clair's face had been a treat too, until she threatened to throw my randy ass out on the street. That hadn't been so much fun.

Clair was watching me keenly, 'I thought I heard a cell phone?'

'Cell phone?' I look puzzled, I have it on good authority that I look tres, tres cute when I puzzled. 'Don know 'bout dat. Dis Cajun was sleepin' til his landlady decide to come an' so rudely disturb him.'

I arch an eyebrow. 'Course mebbe you come down here cause you reconsidered dat lil' no sleepin' wit your employees rule, eh?'

I can't resist. And I know it will send her packing back to her room faster than anything else I can say.

Clair blushes and then frowns, 'You, Remy Lebeau, are worse than a darn tom cat. Do you think of nothing else but sex?'

Still smiling I recline back on to the couch, letting the sheets fall away from my bare-as-nature-intended body just a little. She watches of course, who could resist this body, eh? 'Not usually, cherie.'

Clair throws up her hands in defeat and turns on her heel, 'Goodnight Remy.' she calls back firmly.

'Bon Nuit, Clair.'

She leaves the living room light on so I have to get up off the sofa and turn it off. I pad across the living room in the buff figuring what's the harm, Clair's already upstairs. It's only as the ground floor of the split level ranch house is thrown back into three am darkness that I see the flicker of movement from the darkened kitchen doorway.

'Grey Crow.' I nod towards his silhouette, refusing to be bothered by the fact that I've just unintentionally exposed myself to the man. His fault for skulking around in the dark, no, and I sure don't have anything to be ashamed of.

From where I'm standing I can see the glitter of faint light dancing over his belt buckle shaped like the state of Missouri, and that strange calculating look the moody Native American gives me whenever he thinks I'm not looking.

Without saying a word he steps out of the tiny kitchen and into the hallway. His large hands resting on his belt, his coat open to reveal his criss-crossing shoulder holster straps, the glint of a silver and matt black Glock ten millimetre catches my eye.

He stops only a few feet away from where I'm standing in nothing but my birthday suit. He's framed in a pool of faint grey light coming in through the window in the front door.

He doesn't say anything and I start to get nervous. It's clear the guy don't like me but I've been staying with Clair, working shifts at the Bar, for three months now and Grey Crow hasn't done a thing about it. I wish I knew what his game was.

'Din't know you were back, mon ami. Din't hear you come in. Clair never said you were back.' Shut up Remy, you're babbling!

A tiny flicker of a smile crooks his lips, 'She doesn't know yet.'

We stare at each other in silence for a couple more seconds; long, tense seconds.

'Dere be somet'ing you be needin' help wit, Grey Crow?' I ask when I can't stand the silence no more. Know it for a mistake the moment the words fall out of my mouth.

The man manages a full smile, though it looks like a wolf baring its yellowed teeth in the moonlight. 'I'll let you know soon enough,' He pauses as if anticipating and savouring his next words, 'Remy _Lebeau._'

Then while I'm trying to remember how to breathe he opens the front door and walks out into the night. Standing in the open doorway I can only watch like a slack-jawed fool as Grey Crow slinks into the shadows, my demon eyes tracking him into the depths of darkness.

He called me 'Lebeau'. He knows my name; the name that was stolen from me. The one I don't use on pain of death. How? How can he know me? What does he know 'bout me and what does he want?

* * *

_Triple my standard fee. Remy you idiot - learn to say no next time. _

One month to wriggle into the staff of Westlake Brokerage and Investments in Flagstaff Arizona, as a maintenance worker, further two months to scrap up a relationship with the secretary pool and the night security guy and I'm good to go.

Got a window of thirty-six minutes to break the vault, get the bullion bonds and get the hell out before Charlie wakes up from his nap.

Molly in accounts was real helpful as was Deborah the Director's P.A. Only cost me a few nights of wine and sympathy to get the information I needed.

Why the femme's would think a guy like me would really care for a couple of forty-something women is beyond me, but they always fall for it. It make me feel bad almost; almost dirty. But it's part of the job and at least this way the girls get some pleasure and attention in their dull little lives, no?

Getting the blue prints for the vault and the schematics for the securities was easy as pie once Molly provided me with the codes for the computer system and Deborah her boss's security clearance (not that she knew that was what she was doing, poor femme.)

Charlie, the nightwatchman's, chronic loneliness was a god send. Man needed someone to talk to about his divorce, his loser kid in Juvie, and his disastrous affair with his ex-wife's sister so bad he was happy to 'give me a tour' of the security features after five hours straight of my listening to his whining.

Some people would just buy the information, or hack the systems, but I like the fact that I can get anyone to tell me anything with a few words and a smile. Don't even need to flash the cash.

It's what makes me good. Still, sometimes I think this 'charm' thing I've got going on is more trouble than it's worth; especially when I have to pretend to care about other people's boring little lives.

Why am I thinking all this now? I almost finished slipping through the last of the infrared's and the pressurised flooring and my minds wandering. Most thieves would have to bring backup for this kind of work, but thanks to my mutie genes I just bounce on by, near float over the pressurised floor. Lasers; what lasers? What I wouldn't give for a real challenge, some real danger. That rush when you know that a wrong move might seriously get you killed.

The door to the vault is huge solid steel, looks like a bulk-head door on a ship, big old steering wheel handle and all. Pull a card out of my belt pouch. Jokers are wild. But no, much as it would be fun to blow the door wide open, that isn't the way to do a job right. Denby would not be happy and I might not get my money.

I'm down to eleven minutes and a handful of seconds by the time I get the door open. The security nearest the prize is always the toughest. Wasn't able to find out what securities they have in the vault either.

Time for my decoy; I go back down the hall a little ways to where I left Charlie snoring like a pneumatic drill, doped to the gills. That will learn him to drink with Cajun's.

Now that the lasers and pressure pads are de-activated I can drag his fat ass across the floor to the vault door with no more trouble then most people would have dragging unconscious fat guys along steel floors.

'Charlie, mon ami, you wit' me?' Crouching down I give his heavy face a quick slap; no response. Peel back an eyelid and get nothing but the whites. He's out like a light still, good.

With one good push I shove Charlie through the open vault door and wait for him to slap down on the floor. My ears pop and I know that a silent alarm's just been tripped, time to play.

I grab all the bearing bonds and the bullion that I can carry. Find the safety deposit box that is the real target for this raid and prep Charlie the fall-guy. Pulling out a spare rig, complete with a number of cheap knock-off tools of the trade for authenticity and putting him in it.

A few well placed 'clues' for CSI and we have us a nice little case of thieves double crossing thieves when a heist goes wrong. Poor Charlie - it's always the quiet guy.

I'm out and breathing the sweet air of success before the first of the squad cars screams up to the building. Grapple hook and line across to a neighbouring building and down the fire escape and I'm in the clear.

Or that the plan anyway, funny how life got a way of screwing with your expectations, non?

'Outlaw - stop where you are.'

Spin around at the sound of the voice. I thought this alleyway was empty? A man with a gun, looks like a Baretta nine mil., steps out from behind a dumpster.

The hammer cocks back with a sharp crack, 'Keep your hands where I can see them, outlaw.' The man's accent is flawless mid-American, utterly without inflection -that's the second thing that tips me off to his identity. The first is the fact that he keeps calling me 'outlaw'.

I plaster a smile on my face and stand casual, hands in the air like the man with the gun says. 'Who you be homme?'

'Shut – up!' The man moves with the practiced speed and stealth of a Guild trained thief. He grabs the back of my head, fingers winding into my shoulder length hair and he shoves the butt of the gun under my chin. This could be bad.

'You don't get to speak, outlaw – you are no one and nothing to the Guilds.'

The man is maybe mid-thirties, short black hair trimmed close to his head, neat black beard and moustache; average height and build, nothing special. Perfect thief camouflage, but what Guild is he? Arizona doesn't have one, far as I know, that's why I came here.

With the gun under my chin and my head forced back I can't get a good look at the man's eyes, can't see what he's thinking or whether there's any wriggle room there. I try to pitch my voice, light, easy, relaxed.

'Look homme I don know who you are an' I don know – '

Star bursts of pain as the asshole uses the butt of the gun to punch me in the gut, I double up – damn but he's fast. I'm down on my hands and knees and he brings his arm up and then down in a sweeping arc towards the back of my head, I can feel the rush of air preceding the blow.

Winded I may be but Jean-Luc Lebeau didn't raise no slouch. I roll onto my back and kick upwards at the Guild Thief before his blow can reach me. My kick to his balls has the desired affect and it's him that's on the ground rolling around in agony now. Steel toe boots will do that to a man.

I make a grab for his gun and then he pulls another. What kind of Guild thief uses a gun anyway? New Orleans only lets its thieves use guns as a last resort. To use a gun is seen as a sign of weakness.

Wrack my brains trying to guess where the guy comes from and which Guild has any problem with me (other than my own that is) as I stamp on his gun hand and drop down on my knees on the man's chest.

'Shit - you from Miami.' It's the only answer. The mid-western United States don't have that many Guilds, they mostly stick to the south and the coasts where the big money lives and Miami is the only place with a Guild that I've worked in since my banishment from New Orleans.

'Outlaw!' The man spits at me. 'You'll pay for defiling our turf.'

With his own gun pressed to his throat and my legs pinning his arms to the slimy, cracked alley floor I can't help but laugh. 'Defiling your turf? Where you t'ink you are homme, who talks like dat anyway?'

'Kill me if you want. New Orleans won't save you, outlaw. You're life was forfeit the moment you broke Nao Ling.'

I blink. 'Nao Ling? What does the Miami Guild have to do wit' Nao Ling?' I had thought they were a front and money laundering company for the Yakuza - not the Miami Guild. Unless.......oh, shit.

The guy takes this opportunity, while I'm distracted, to dislodge my hold on him and we both go rolling along the alley floor. I kick him off me and pull a brace of cards.

'Warning you, homme, I don want trouble, but as you can see, I'm more'n ready to rumble.' As I hoped the guy backs up when he sees the fistful of glowing cards, clearly this grunt from Miami hadn't known about my mutie powers.

Seizing the advantage I fan the cards, letting him see that in my hands wax paper can blow him into a million pieces.

'You got 'til de count of t'ree to get gone, homme, or dere won't be enough left of you to fit in a doggy bag, comprende vous?'

'Mutie freak.' The man almost snarls at me. He twitches but I can read his moves a mile off and fling one of the cards at the dumpster next to him. The card blasts a hole in the sheet metal and sends a shower of refuse and filth into the alley; the blast also knocks the Guild thief flying into the wall too.

I walk over to him and haul him up, his scalp's bleeding where he smacked into the wall. I wave the remaining cards under his nose and force his head to stare at the smashed dumpster.

'See dat, homme, dat's what one of my lil' cards can do to de metal dumpster, what do you t'ink I can do to you, eh?'

I think I've got my point across when his eyes stay glued to my glowing hand. I decide to press my advantage anyway because, come on, I never know when to quit while I ahead.

'You gon leave now, homme. An' you can go back to your Guild an' tell dem dat Remy Lebeau is nobody's fool. An' unless de Miami Guild want de other Guilds to know dey been in bed wit' de Yakuza dey better not come after me again, hear?'

'You don't scare me, freak.' He hisses as I shove him away and step back. I laugh, casually fanning my cards again, 'Not tryin' to scare anybody, homme, just trying to get home to my bed. If you left me alone neither of us be in dis mess, eh?'

Without a backward glance I pick up my dropped gear and saunter out of the alley, the Thief's gun pushed into the belt of my bodysuit. Really need to get me a coat or something to cover up some of this gear, I think. A trench coat maybe, like my Papa wears, those are cool; one with a lot of pockets.

The thief from Miami doesn't come after me as I walk casually down the street, didn't think he would. Food for thought though. No way to know if my guess about the Miami Guild and the Yakuza is right, but the guy's silence is pretty good circumstantial evidence.

I'm chewing over the consequences of this lil' encounter when I realise somebody is tailing me. I don't turn around or stop, just keep walking same speed, no faster, no slower. I change my route and head towards the busier downtown area, where there'll likely be more people.

Risky, with me carrying the loot and dressed for a job, but I can't risk going to the alley I left my change of clothes in, not with somebody following me and the Miami Guild Thief still out there. I catch a glimpse of my mystery admirer in a store window as I cross the street. Damn! It can't be, but it looks like Grey Crow.

I lose my tail, whoever he is, when I skirt the edges of the downtown district, lot of people queuing for clubs and spilling out of bars. I keep walking head high and casual and anybody that notices my weird clothing probably just thinks I'm in fancy dress. It's the way of the world, look confident and keep a smile on your face and you can get away with anything.

Have the feeling, though, that I could be in for an eventful night before I can make my delivery and ride back to Millstone. I was really hoping for a quiet pinch as well, got to work the bar tomorrow and Clair gets on me when I've been out late before work. C'est la vie. What's a boy to do?

* * *

'Clair, ma cherie, I ask dis before but what possess you to open a seafood restaurant in de middle of de Arizona desert?'

The kitchen is stifling hot and the pot lids are bubbling and steam is making everything damp and clinging; Clair's t-shirt being a case in point. Not that I'm complaining, especially when the cherie tends not to wear a bra.

'I like seafood, besides people like novelty.' She reaches over and refills my shot glass with vodka and then her own. Clair drinks like a fish. You wouldn't know it to look at her but there be demons at her back and skeletons in her closet, have no doubt.

That's partly why I stick around. Even after the heat with Nao Ling cooled off and Grey Crow vanished into thin air taking his secrets with him. I like this femme with her kind smile and haunted eyes. Don't care about her secrets, we all got those. They just add spice to life, is all.

We just closed up the bar and it's late. Lot of the locals from the town were celebrating the result of the high school football game. Never been a fan of football, prefer basketball, but Millstone folk take it real seriously. And they like nothing better, it seems, then to celebrate with a big bowl of spicy chilli shrimp from Clair Du-Lac's bar and grill.

We drink in silence for a while. Vodka don't do much for me generally speaking. Don't know why; probably on account of being a mutant maybe. But I like to stay with Clair when she gets into the serious drinking. No one should drink alone it's depressing as hell, especially not sweet femmes who take wild Cajun's in off of the streets.

Suddenly Clair looks at me with this weird, drunken light in her eyes. 'Remy - do you believe in evil?'

I blink. 'Huh?' Bravo Remy, real suave.

'Evil.' She looks at me leaning over the kitchen island. 'Do you believe in right and wrong. Good and evil?'

I smile, though she's giving me the heebie-jeepies 'Not really, cherie. Why?' Though I think I don't want to know. Evil; what brought this on?

Clair does something really weird then. She reaches out suddenly and grabs my hand. Now I'm freaked out. Clair really isn't into the casual – or the not so casual – touching; in fact touching period is kinda a no-no for this femme.

That mostly the reason I quit seriously trying to get her into bed; being raised on the streets for the first ten years of my life I can guess at the reasons behind those shadows in her eyes when people get too close, too grabby. So her touching me now sets my inner alarms to wailing.

'What about innocence then? Do you believe people are ever really innocent? Is innocence just absence of sin, or is it something else?' Her words split the silence of the kitchen in staccato bursts, like machine gun bullets. Her grip on my hand tightens convulsively.

'Cherie, Clair, sweet,' I begin wriggling my hand out of her grip. 'You askin' de wrong boy, eh? I'm jus' de short order cook, non? Don know not'ing bout good an' evil.' I deliberately thicken up the accent; play up my poor white trash roots.

Clair withdraws and I can tell I've dodged a bullet here. Something slips over her eyes - a mask, like the fish-eye filminess that filled Julien's eyes when I killed him.

She snorts into her shot glass. 'I think you, Remy jailbait,'_ Jailbait_ being her nickname for me when I wouldn't give her a last name, 'know more about good and evil then a boy your age should.'

'I'm no boy, cherie.' I argue automatically.

It bothers me that she treats me like a child - haven't been a child since - well I don't think I've ever been a child, not in the way she means. Maybe because of the weird vibe in the air between us still I feel the need to make light of everything. So it's time for a bit of iron heavy suggestion and innuendo that she can laugh off.

'Why you worryin' 'bout evil, ma cherie? De only t'ings dat matter in dis life is how much pleasure you can get out of livin'.' I purr fluttering my eyelashes, long as a damned camel's, and give her my best patented sultry smile. 'Mebbe you let me show you alla 'bout dat pleasure, sometime?'

Clair rolls her eyes and snorts another laugh. She never just laughs, it's always a strangled off snort; though I take pride that I can bring that half laugh out of her more often than any other.

'Goodnight jailbait.' She gets up off the stool she dragged in from the bar. Then she hesitates before coming round the kitchen island and to my surprise taking my face in both her hands and planting a kiss straight on my lips.

'Clair knew you couldn' resist me forever, Cherie.'

I grin but I can tell she not wanting the proverbial wham-bang thank you ma'am. That dark, aching sadness is back in her eyes. For a moment her dark gaze become violet to my eyes and it's Belle studying me, anguish in her eyes as well as hurt looking at me as if she's hoping, expecting, something but I don't know what.

Clair shakes her head and sighs. 'You're so innocent, Remy; so wonderfully, hopelessly innocent.'

'Innocen'?' I choke on the word.

Nobody has ever called me that. This femme is nuts just for thinking it. Innocent, that's as good as dead where I come from.

I jerk away from her, angry. 'Cherie, nobody ever called dis Cajun innocent an' done anyt'ing but live to regret it.'

I glare at her and then immediately try to rein it in; far as she knows I'm just some drifter kid and that's how it's got to stay, especially if I want to stay living here.

But Clair is just smiling at me, shaking her head, there's this look on her face -try to name it – words fail me. Not sad, or happy, or angry, kind of all those things and other feelings I don't think I've seen before. Suddenly she makes me feel like a kid – and her only a few years older than me at that. She's still smiling that weird smile when she starts speaking again.

'I know what you do when you disappear for days at a time. I know about the fake accents and the sharp suits, the janitor overalls and the cell-phone calls. I know you're hiding from the police.'

'Police?' I blink my weird - though amazingly useful – eyes at her. 'Clair, cherie, dis Cajun got no idea what you takin' about. I don run away from anyt'ing.'

Hidden from her view by the curve of my body I slip a hand into my pocket and feel the familiar, reassuring edge of the credit card I purloined from the drunk frat boy who tried to start some mess in the bar tonight. It will charge nicely.

Clair continues to smile at me, that same almost pitying look in her eyes.

'My little Remy Jailbait all the way from the Big Easy.' She shakes her head sadly. 'A bad boy in a bad world but not a bit of it touches you. You're like a baby, a child, innocent of the damage you do.'

Then just like that, like a switch just been flipped, she's up and gone out the door and away. Hear the main door to the bar slam shut and a moment later the coughing growl of Clair's old Jeep Cherokee as she pulls out of the lot with speed leaving me wondering what the hell I'm going to do now. Has she just chucked me out? She sounded angry but I haven't done anything – least nothing she can prove – so what just happened?

When in doubt don't think about it. Enjoy the ride while it lasts 'cause nothing lasts forever anyways. So I get my ass up and get on with cleaning up the bar and kitchen, earning my keep after a fashion.

I'm putting the chairs up on the tables when I realise I'm not alone in here. A subtle shift in air currents, a flicker of motion and the hackles on the back of my neck stand on end. I'm diving into a ground roll before I even hear the distinctive drawn out click of a trigger being drawn back.

A bullet bites into the wood floor of the bar right where my head was two seconds ago, but I'm already moving. Back flip from a crouched position and I'm flipping through the air, twisting my body so I'm facing the man, my booted feet come down square into my attackers chest.

We crash to the floor and I smack his gun from his hand, but he's agile as a weasel and pulls a knife, slices my forearm. I swear and throw a punch towards his jaw, he grabs my fist, twists and uses my own momentum to toss me onto the floor, riding me down and pounding my face into the hardwood.

My hands are free and I pull the stolen credit card from my pocket, slide it into my palm but don't start charging yet. Don't want to give away my advantage – learned that lesson from Creed back in Paris. I manage to twist around in his pin, can't dislodge him completely, he's got to have at least sixty, maybe seventy pound on me, but it's enough.

I let him drag me to him and get a grip on his leather shoulder holster, let just a little charge run out of my hands and into the leather, just enough to set it glowing so he can feel the heat through the t-shirt he's wearing.

'Shit!'

He shoves me away and gets to his feet, long black hair flowing loose and leather duster flapping, Grey Crow looks down at his fuchsia glowing holster with surprise but not that much fear.

I take the opportunity to get some distance between us while he uses his Bowie knife to slice through the holster. I'm making for the door when he throws the holster at me.

I have to hit the deck as the leather straps hit the seating booth near the door and blasts the red PVC upholstered booth seat into ribbons, a profusion of stuffing spraying into the air.

'Jesus.' I hear Grey Crow whisper sounding almost reverent as he grabs me by the ponytail and hauls me to my feet. Where the hell did he come from? He was half way across the bar!

With one arm pinning my chest and arms and the other holding the bowie knife to my throat Grey Crow holds me trapped, least that's what he thinks. With my hands trapped down by my sides I slip the stolen, charged and ready credit card into Grey Crow's jeans pocket, I was the best street thief in N'awlins after all, and then throw myself backward, making him take all my weight.

Being a skinny sack of bones I manage to wriggle out of his grip again, twist away from his grabbing hands and turn to face him. I kick at his face hard as I can knowing he'll move to avoid the blow, and just as I hope he pivots away from me enough distance that I can detonate the delayed charge without worrying about harming myself.

Grinning manically I meet his eyes, 'Tag m'sieu, you are it.' I snap my fingers and the card slipped snug in Grey Crow's pocket goes boom.

I charged the card so that the blast would give him something to think about while I make a break for it, except it doesn't work that way; must have overcharged it or something because when the card explodes in Grey Crow's pocket he screams and falls backward against the wood of the bar. Blood splatters the air in a fine spray and his upper left thigh is reduced to so much hamburger meat.

The look in his eyes as he looks up at me clutching his mangled leg, scares me more than the damage I just accidentally did; he doesn't look scared or angry, he looks impressed.

He's bleeding all over the freshly swept hardwood and not likely to give me anymore trouble. I can see bone splinters through the purplish meat of his thigh. Mon dieu, but I didn't mean to do that.

The phone is on the wall behind the bar and I vault over the bar -top to reach it. Dial 911 without thinking too much about anything.

'Operator I need an ambulance to Du-Lac Bar and grill, dere's been an accident.'

Behind me Grey Crow's laboured breathing hitches in protest, '……..what the hell you doing boy…..no…..cops.'

I ignore him and give the woman on the end of the phone the address of the bar. All I tell her is that a man has been hurt in a bar brawl, which is technically true.

Grey Crow is looking kind of grey when I hang up, the skin of his face shiny with sweat. He watches me with pain bright eyes. Then he frightens the hell out of me by smiling.

'That's quite a power you got there, Lebeau. Heard there was something special about you. See that I heard right.'

Despite myself I step forward, stopping to pick up the Bowie knife he dropped in the fight.

'Who told you my name?' I brandish the blade and only then see that I've been charging it without noticing. I work at not letting the tremor in my hands show.

Grey Crow just smiles at me, head starting to sag onto his chest. Blood pumps from his thigh like a broken water main. Shit, I haven't seen bleeding like this since -since Julien.

'_Who told you my name?'_ I reach out and slap his face when his eyes slip shut. His eyes flutter and roll but he doesn't seem conscious. Getting up I grab a roll of dish towel from behind the bar and wad a fistful of the stuff in my hands. I keep pressure on the wound on his leg and Grey Crow moans, coming too.

'Why did you attack me? Dis wouldn've happened if you hadn't tried to kill me, homme.' His blood is getting all over me, like Julien's had; hot and thick and smelling of rust and offal.

'…….testing you boy, needed to see what you were made of...'

'_Testing me;_ for what?' Somehow the knife is back in my hand and my hand moves by itself to Grey Crow's throat. 'Got to tell you, homme, I don like being tested.'

Grey Crow looks at me keenly, feverish eyes near glowing. 'I need a partner boy and you need a teacher. He's not ready for you yet.'

'Teacher?' I'm starting to feel like a parrot.

Grey Crow doesn't answer. His head lolls against his chest and only his rasping breath tells me he's still alive. Finally I hear the wail of approaching sirens and I go to the door to face the music.


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three: Grey Crow and the Cajun; Bounty and the Scalp?

'The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains.' Clair recites to me, carefully enunciating her vowels like an American Eliza Dolittle. Or maybe I'm the Pygmalion? For some reason she's decided that _I don' be tawkin' raight or sumt'ing;_ go figure.

'De raihn in Spain fawl mai'ly on de plains.' I repeat deliberately mangling the sentence, rolling the syllables like gum in my mouth. I take a drag of my cigarette and Clair reaches over and smacks me across the back of the head with a rolled up Time Magazine she had been using as a fly swatter.

'Remy! Just say the damn line.'

'I just did.' I snap back in the same tone, perfect diction and all.

We glare at each other for a few seconds and then the rapport of a shot gun hammer being drawn back causes us both to jump. Grey Crow lazily points the twelve gauge at us.

'Why don't you to just hurry up and fuck and be done with it. Tension between you is getting annoying.'

I laugh and Clair looks mortified. Grey Crow sits in the brown leather recliner with his bandaged leg propped up on a foot stool. Guns and indistinguishable bits of metal litter the side table beside his chair. Grey Crow is a mutant too got the power to do weird things to metal. Can't say I see the point of it really, but it makes him happy.

Clair looks at me narrowly and repeats, yet again, in pernicious good English, 'The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains.'

Groaning I flop back against the pillows on the floor where I've been sitting looking over a collection of blue prints Grey Crow bought home with him. He wants my professional opinion on the security and access points in the building.

Just to annoy Clair I recite the words back to her in perfect Parisian French. She throws a cushion at my head and I catch it one handed and fling it back before she knows what's hit her. Grey Crow arches an eyebrow at my reflexes and I just smile at him.

It's been six weeks since that night in the bar when I nearly blew the man's leg off. Six eventful weeks; turns out Grey Crow is one of the best bounty hunters in the United States, going by the cuddly nom de guerre of Scalphunter.

Back in the Guild I knew about bounty hunters, part of Guild training was learning who the best in the business were so you'd know if one of them was on your tail. I remember Scalphunter being on that list and there was probably a picture – but I never made the connection.

Turned out the union of bounty hunters has something similar, a kind of who's who of known criminal elements. The main players in most of the American Guilds are on that list – and yours truly.

'What's the verdict on those blue prints; any suggestions on easy access?' Grey Crow asks me once he's done cleaning his gun.

'Sure.'

Bored with the blue prints already, I've started laying out a game of solitaire. Recently I've been working on my card tricks; been playing cards ever since my run in with The Pig when I was fourteen. Kind of an obsession that got me through the dark, sleepless nights when I could've sworn I heard Etienne calling to me in the shadows, calling out for me to save him.

Now when I look at the faces on the cards I see Belle, the lethal ace of spades, Julien the perfect suicide king. It's weirdly hypnotic – like I can feel my mind unravelling, all those chains I bind my thoughts up in unwinding as I lay out the cards, one over another over another; suit after suit.

'Lebeau!' I snap to attention and see that both Clair and Grey Crow are giving me fishy looks.

I give them both my best bright and empty smile, 'Sorry mes amis, you must have been boring me.'

Grey Crow frowns, 'I asked you to mark off access routes and possible booby traps on the blue prints so I can send them off to my contact.'

'Sure t'ing.' I look about me and before I can ask, Clair hands me a marker pen. 'T'anks cherie.'

I still don't know the deal with Clair. She isn't part of Grey Crow's bounty hunting gig and they not lovers that I'm certain of. Yet she knows all about him – and me, and it doesn't seem to bother her.

I would love to know how she and Grey ended up together - and why. But I've been raised in a world of secrets and know that the truth is rarely worth the price you pay for it. Maybe they'll tell me their deal but then again maybe they won't. Maybe I don't really want to know, eh?

Because of Grey Crow's stay in the hospital and the time he still needed to get on his feet after our lil' tussle at the bar, it was decided that me and Clair should help him out a bit with some of his 'business'.

The fact that his 'accident' was his own damn fault for attacking me paled in comparison to the mess I caused in Clair's bar – so she called the shots. Told me I had to help out Grey Crow or pack my bags and told him – well I don't know what she told him - don't try and shoot the Cajun in the bar, I guess.

As to what Grey Crow was about with that partner crap, well I still don't know what that was about and I'm not stupid enough to ask. In fact, the smart thing to do would be to get out of here right quick but truthfully I'm so damn bored of drifting. And maybe, maybe I'm curious about what Grey Crow and Clair are really about.

'Tell me about Nao Ling.' Grey Crow breaks the companionable silence that had descended between the three of us. I don't even bother looking up from marking off pitfalls and access points on the blue prints.

'What dat, homme? Some kinda Chinese tea or something?'

Grey Crow snorts and I can almost feel him and Clair share one of those complicated looks they're so good at.

'I'll go start dinner.' Clair says getting up from the couch and leaving the room. I look up to watch her leave.

'That was a slick piece of work you pulled off with the Nao Ling ring.' Grey Crow continues conversationally, 'Can't believe a skinny green horn kid like you managed to talk Denby Marks into giving you the commission. Don't know how a cocky brat like you managed to pull it off either.'

I give him a practiced blank stare. The one I perfected by aged eleven when the NOPD would drag me and my buddies off the streets and threaten us with juvenile hall. 'Don' know what you're talking about Grey Crow.'

Grey Crow shakes his head. 'You've got a bounty on your head, boy, you know that don't you?' He looks at me keenly. I stare back at him, giving him nothing.

'Word on the street is that the Miami Guild is hot for you. Something about an anonymous tip-off to the American Guilds that Miami was in league with the Yakuza.' Grey Crow arches an eyebrow. I give him poker face. Maybe that had been a stupid thing to do, but that thief in flagstaff pissed me off.

Of course I figured when I wrangled my way onto Denby Marks books as a professional thief and persuaded him to give me a shot at the Nao Ling contract that I was taking a huge risk. Not even legal age and straight out of New Orleans and I wanted to break one of the largest organised crime companies in the southern United States?

It hadn't just been pride. I had been raised to do this kind of thing. Guild thieves wouldn't be seen dead knocking off Seven Eleven's or stealing the silverware from little old ladies in their homes. Corporate espionage, high-end sabotage and bank heists were in my blood.

I'd been trained to it since I was old enough to walk upright. Just because the New Orleans Guild had forsaken me didn't mean I wasn't still the best damn thief the Guild ever produced.

The fact that I was stealing the bread and butter from the thieves Guild and taking the first step at establishing my reputation as an independent agent in fabulous style was just an added bonus; really.

Grey Crow was still studying me as I got to my feet and took the blue prints over to him.

'So, homme, what're these for anyway?' I rustle the blue prints but didn't give them to him. There was a certain power in standing over him with him trapped in the chair, not able to stand. I might have given him a good slap-down that night in the bar, but the guy still gave me the heeby-jeepies.

'Why do you want to know?' He asked me coolly. He held out a hand for the blue prints.

I shrugged, 'I don' want to know. Jus' seems to me dat a body wanting to get in or out of a place like dis,' I tap the blue prints for what looks suspiciously like some kind of secure facility. Penal maybe but it could also be military. 'Is gon need to have a good thief wit' dem when they go.'

'Why is that?' Grey Crow asks keenly, a light in his eyes that puts my back up slightly, but I just can't resist talking turkey with another professional, even if he isn't a thief.

I lay out the blue prints on the side table pushing Grey Crow's bits of metal and junk onto the floor. He frowns as I do that and I bite back a grin. 'Not askin' what dis place is, dat's privileged information, non?'

'Could be,' Grey Crow agreed cautiously.

'Right, but see, I can tell straight off jus' looking at dese blue prints dat dis place is built like Fort Knox and Alcatraz rolled into one. Whatever is in dis place isn't supposed to be coming out.'

I watch Grey Crow for his reaction but the guy is a pro and gives me nothing but polite interest. Can feel by heart beating faster, get that dry feeling in my throat. The rush and tingle of a potentially dangerous, hugely complicated, great fun heist.

'And?' Grey Crow prompts.

I'm grinning from ear to ear but I just can't help myself. 'Annnnnndd mebbe, I'm t'inking, dey gon have all kinds of securities inside the facility dat aren't gon to show up on dese blue prints; nasty lil' securities like infra-red's, lasers, trip wires, men wit' guns.'

I'm getting gooseflesh just thinking about it. Mais oui, but I've missed those kinds of jobs; the ones that are all action, explosions and very little thinking, those the types like best.

'What's your point Cajun?' Grey Crow growls. Though I get the feeling he's laughing at me behind his eyes. Don't care though. Lordy but I'm bored of this playing it safe crap. I want some action.

'I can mark out the best places to get in an' out, but it's not gon help. Whoever breaks dis place is gon need a real t'ief wit' dem.'

I say and some part of me, some lone voice is yelling that I'm a fool, that this is why Grey Crow gave me those blue prints, the man is playing me. But I just don't care.

Why should I care about Guild rules and playing safe and cautious? The Guild disowned me. My family betrayed me. It's time to have some fun.

Grey Crow grins at me, 'Was hoping you'd say that boy.'

'Why?' I keep the smile off my face. I want in on this, whatever this is. I want a real challenge and I don't care what the details are.

A strange look passes over Grey Crow's flat, hard features briefly and then dissipates. He takes a breath and spears me with a hard look.

'Like I said boy I need a partner and you need somebody to teach you some sense to go with that bravado. You've got a bounty on your head and you don't even seem to care. This way I figure I can double my profits by providing my contacts with a Guild trained thief and you might actually learn something useful.'

I scoff, 'T'anks, mon ami. But I doing fine on my own.' I give him my best jack-ass smirk, guaranteed to piss off the coldest sonofabitch in a nanosecond, 'Anyways don seem like it's me dat needs to watch his back, eh?' I look pointedly at his plaster covered leg.

All the while I talking I also ignoring the fact that the whole speech he just gave me was a load of bull. There's something else going on. It don't matter though, know enough to know that if it's bad news it will find me soon enough. No need to go digging for it. They say the devils in the detail after all.

'If I'm gon help you out on dis job, I want fifty per cent of de commission on sale – plus equal share on de money for de pinch.' I cross my arms over my chest.

Grey Crow frowns, 'You're an arrogant son of a bitch aren't you boy.'

I smile, 'I got de goods to back it, homme.' I flash him a sly smile, 'But you know dat don you – you were de one watching me in Flagstaff, weren' you?'

Grey Crow lets just a tiny flicker of surprise cross his face. 'Sixty-Forty on my take; take it or leave it.'

I chew over this and the hard look on his face. I don't really know anything about this job – or even what the job is, what the blue prints are of, even. 'Deal, mon ami – though I'm givin' you a discount on account o' de fact dat you injured.' I add grinning.

Grey Crow grunts, 'Arrogant son of a bitch.' he repeats. 'got a high opinion of yourself, don't you boy.'

'It isn' arrogance, it fact; I'm dat good.'

'Maybe, maybe not.' Again that look in Grey Crow's eyes, that calculating look. Like he was trying to figure out what was inside me. Figure out if I as good as I say I am. The look I'd see sometimes in my brother Henri's eyes when he was assessing thief candidates for a pinch.

Weighing up the pro's and con's of each thief on the list. Usually while I sat next to him trying to persuade him to let me help, or better yet let me take the pinch.

Never did work, that. Henri never had a high opinion of my skills, or my intelligence. Mostly on account of the fact that things tended to explode when I was around. Or evil pig-faced freaks would try and enslave me, or psychotic mutant's would take a personal grudge against me and dangle Henri from the top of Notre Dame.

But that was over now. Henri was a part of my past. Just like the Guild, like Belle, and my Papa. It was time to start making my future.

'A partnership, then?' Grey Crow offers his hand, 'You come in on the job with me, under my commission?'

'Deal,' I shake his hand. Already I'm thinking over the problems, the unknowns. Truth is I don't even know who the client is or how much money I'll be getting. Truth is I'm so bored I don't really care. I want a good time more than I need the money.

It's not like working with Grey Crow this one time is a lasting contract, is it? I can walk away whenever I want. Right?


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four: Parthership of Lies; the price of a Life?

'It's de Fountain of Youth, how could I say no?'

Grey and me, we walking down Polk Street in Seattle, in the rain, quelle surprise.

'It sounds like a mugs game.' Grey Crow tugs his leather trench coat closed over the mini-Uzi he's got concealed under the coat. We're attracting some curious looks, what with Grey's bad news vibe and my stunning good looks.

'You left a good run to chase after a pipe dream with some floozy and a - whatever that creature was.' Grey is mad. I decide to ignore the fact with my usual panache.

'Grovel. And he's a Kryluvian.' I stop to admire a red headed woman with legs up to her neck and one of the best racks I've ever seen. She sees me looking and smiles. I give her a wink but keep walking.

'A what?'

Grey Crow sounds annoyed. I suppose leaving him in the middle of a run to go play with Spat and Grovel was not the smartest thing I could do. But it's not like I didn't give Grey the option of coming along. Not my fault the man takes life too damn seriously.

'Don really know what Grovel is either, Grey, some kinda giant, talking lizard, woul' be my guess.'

Grey Crow grunts as we leave the well populated area of the city and make our way towards its darker heart. 'Did you make the consignment?'

I hesitate slightly, 'Well not x'ctly, dere were unexpected developments.' I hedge.

Developments like nearly getting washed in a vat of de-aging liquid if it hadn't been for Spat. Going to have to phone that fille and thank her for the save.

Grey Crow looks at me sharply. 'You're telling me you left me in the middle of a legitimate run and you don't have anything to show for it.'

I feel insulted but I keep the smile on my face. Truthfully I'm still a bit sore about the failure of the run with Spat and Grovel. Don't mean I'd never do the same thing again, but next time I'd ask for payment up front.

And I'm getting mighty sick of Grey Crow acting like he owns me. Truth is I'm beginning to think I could do better on my own. Been at this a year after all and already have more contacts than Grey Crow, thanks to my boundless charm.

'Not not'ing, mon ami; got some great memories.' I shrug and laugh, 'You should've been dere, Grey; you missed some serious fun.'

Grey Crow grabs me by the arm and hauls me down an alley between buildings. 'We're not in this for fun, Remy. We're here to track our consignment and collect the money. This is a job.'

I quirk an eye brow and pull my arm from his grip. 'I know dat, mon ami.' I say coolly, 'You forg'tting who it was dat tracked down de mark in de firs' place?' _After you lost him _I add silently.

'It was also your fault that he escaped us in San Francisco, too.'

Okay now I'm getting mad. 'Bullshit was it.'

'You were supposed to help me set up the sting. Instead you ran off with that skirt with the stupid name!'

'So?' I lean back nonchalantly and examine my nails, 'Figured you could manage a few days wit'out me, mon ami.' I smirk. 'Guess I was wrong, eh?'

Grey Crow sighs. 'Remy you've been actin' crazy since Detroit.' He looks at me hard. 'Crazier than your usual; you need to get it together for this job, boy. We can't afford to lose this contract.'

'Detroit wasn' my fault.' I snap my good mood going down under fast. I did not want to think about Detroit.

Grey Crow is smirking at me knowing he's hit a nerve, 'Nothing ever is, is it, Remy?'

I glare at him, 'We finished de job din't we?' I stop in the road, fists balling. 'So what it din't work out quite like we planned, we still got de job done an' got paid.'

'After you nearly blew up the building the mark was holed up in. Remy you got to take this thing with your powers seriously. We can't afford to attract any more heat from the authorities.'

'Not'ing wrong wit' my powers.'

'Right. So you meant to charge the walls of the apartment building and hit a gas line – while we were still in the building? Jesus, Remy, we could have been killed.'

I meet his eyes though I admit it's difficult. 'Dat was an accident. Don mean dere's anyt'ing wrong wit' me.'

Grey crow sighs, 'Remy, you're being naïve.'

I blink that's not something I get called too often. 'I'm fine, Grey Crow.' I say softly, head down.

I know it's weakness not to meet his eyes, but right now I'm glad my hair is long enough in front to fall in my face. So he can't see the fear in them.

I notice for the first time that I'm taller than he is now. Shot up at least two inches recently – strange how I'm thinking about that, instead of what happened in Detroit.

'You'd better be. We need this job to go down without a hitch.'

The Job, the Mark, the kill; always it was about the job. I figured out pretty quick after I started working with Grey Crow why they call him 'Scalphunter'. The people who contracted Grey Crow were the sort of people who only wanted the first part of the whole 'bring 'em in dead or alive' bounty hunter remit.

Working with me had changed the way Grey worked a little. My 'skills' meant that new options were available in a hunt. I could get us closer to the marks, trick them into walking into our ambushes, avoid the need to chase them down and blow them away. We didn't have to kill. I worked at making sure we didn't kill.

I meet his eyes, my own flat and dead. 'I know dat.' I grind out.

We don't always have to kill our mark but it happens. Most of the time on these consignments all I was doing was baiting the trap for the mark but even so, I kept Grey Crow from killing them most of the time. Even when the Mark get's capped it not me doing it and it not because I didn't try and find another way of fulfilling the consignment.

If the Mark die, it was Grey that killed them, not me; it him that responsible. He was the boss after all. Good as I was getting, even with all the contacts I was making, he was still the boss. And anyway, if we didn't hunt down the mark someone else would. At least with me on their tail they had a chance of keeping their lives, non?

Grey Crow has started walking again, satisfied that he's made his point, and I trail behind him. Reminds me of the times I went on jobs with my brother.

Henri, Papa; wonder what they would think of me now? Doubt they'd be too proud of me. But then why do I care? Nearly two years and I never heard one damn word from them. Not one word since my banishment; a banishment that was their fault. Why do I keep living by the rules they set, rules that never did anything but condemn me? In their eyes I'm already a killer.

The Guild will kill me soon as look at me if I try to go home. They threw me out with nothing except one suitcase, my bike, and their twisted morality like a noose around my neck. This is a world where the strong don't look to nobody to tell them what is right and wrong. They just take what they want.

'Grey?'

That's what I am; one of the strong. I'm young, gorgeous, have any woman I want, got the luck of the Devil himself. I earning an easy quarter million for a few nights work and I not even fully twenty yet. The world at my feet and no family ties to hold me back, so why can't I quit thinking about all the things I lost?

'What?'

We're walking through some of the roughest neighbourhoods in Seattle but nobody on the street bothers us. They take one look at us and think better of it. Now that's power, real power.

'I've been t'inking. De guy we're after. He's running scared now, after 'Frisco. He's right here in Seattle and not spending a dime of dat money he stole, got to be nearly two million dollars.'

'Get to the point, Remy.' Grey Crow says tiredly.

'We're only getting paid two hundred fifty grand for the consignment. De client didn't ask for much proof of death, did he? We could make way more money if we take de Marks stash 'stead of his life.'

I point out wondering how long it will take him to connect the dots. But then money has never been Grey's motivating factor. It's all about the hunt and the kill for him. He needs somebody to keep an eye on the more material considerations. I've always been good at that.

Grey Crow looks at me. 'That money belongs to the client, Remy. He's expecting it back.'

I smile seeing that he's got the point I'm trying to make, even if he's arguing it. 'Non, Grey, if you look at de contract, mon ami, we promised to take de guy down; never said not'ing about de money.'

'It was implicit in the agreement.' Grey Crow said irritably. 'It's just the way this business is done.'

I snort, 'Wasn' understood by me, mon ami, an' if it isn't in de contract it don matter what de client t'ink's is understood.' I hesitate just a little but force myself to be honest about what we really doing here, 'All de client asked for is de guy dead.'

Grey Crow looks at me a mixture of admiration and alarm on his face, 'Remy, we do not want to mess with this client. You hear me. We bring proof the marks dead and the money and that's that.'

I hide my annoyance behind a smile; I don't know if I trying to save the Mark's life or just save myself another night where I got to help Grey dispose of a body.

'I'm down a few grand because of de expenses from de Madagascar job wit' Spat and Grovel,' I shrug. 'We're de best team in de business Grey. De best bar none. Why aren't we takin' our due?'

Grey Crow studies me. 'We don't want trouble from this client, Remy, we take down the mark and take our fee and be done with it. That's how you survive in this business.'

I look at him smiling. 'Survive? Who de hell wants to survive? What good is dat? Non, mon ami, better to die rich and happy in a blaze of glory, I t'ink.'

Grey Crow shakes his head, 'That's why I'm the boss and you're the apprentice. You're touched in the head, boy.'

We start walking through the thick curtain of rain again. I'm hungry, jet-lagged from the flight back to the States from Madagascar and my fingers are starting to throb.

I ignore the cramping ache in my finger joints in the same way I ignore the burning behind my eyes and the pulsing in my temples. Ignore it and hope it goes away.

Inside the pockets of my trench coat I flex my fingers trying to ease out the cramps. Sometimes the pain gets so bad I can't barely lift a cigarette to my mouth. I don't dare tell Grey that I haven't been able to charge anything for the last forty-eight hours. Not even pocket change.

It's probably just tiredness. Need to take a break from runs for a while. Take some R and R in Vegas or Monte Carlo, maybe? I wish I didn't keep thinking about Detroit.

Jesus, but the pain; felt like someone was prying open my skull with a crowbar from the inside, like acid was leaking out of my pores, burning my flesh; the only release was to just let go – blow the place sky high.

There's nothing wrong with my powers, nothing wrong with me. Detroit was just an isolated incident. I'm fine. I'm in control. The cramps chase up my hands into my wrists, my elbows. Lactic acid burning and I grit my teeth.

'Remy!' I almost walk into Grey Crow when he stops walking and I don't. He looks at me angry and suspicious. I look around and realise we've made it to the tenement building the mark has holed up in. I hadn't even noticed. Shit.

'What's de plan?' I ask affecting nonchalance. Got to act like I'm not fighting unconsciousness, that I don't feel like my brain is being sliced by razor blades and washed in sulphuric acid.

'Standard procedure.' Grey Crow raps out with military precision. 'I'll go in via the fire escape, take out the mark. You watch the exits and the street and come up for the disposal when I call you.'

'D'accord.' Nod my head and it feels like it might slide off. I cover it up by slipping through the shadows on the sidewalk towards a boarded up storefront on the corner that gives me the best vantage point of both the back and front escape routes.

Grey Crow streaks off in a black blur towards the east side fire escape. Our mark should be on the third floor, fourth window from the right. The rain falls all around like a curtain of grey against the night blackness. Thick, heavy, all the sounds of the city are muffled and dimmed. God I hate this town.

The aching in my bones fades away and my head feels less obscene. The pain of a few moments ago is gone like it never happened. Suddenly I feel better than I have in days. Like I could run the two minute mile, which I can actually do, but that's not the point. The point is Grey Crow is right. I can't keep feeling like I'm going to die one second and top of the world the next. That's how mistakes happen.

Mistakes like our mark slipping across the side yard of the apartment building. Crap. He must have cottoned on to Grey Crow somehow. The guy is dressed in sports coat and corduroy slacks and is trying to be stealthy. Moving in an awkward crouching run, one hand using the rickety wooden fence as a support and shaking the slats like the keys to a xylophone.

The Mark runs across the street without even glancing in my direction. I step into the deeper shadows anyway and watch as the guy scuttles off in the direction me and Grey have just come from; back towards the lights and crowds of Polk Street. Moving like shadow I follow.

He's probably hoping to lose us in the crowds. He's out of luck unless he's got some wheels stashed somewhere. Polk Street is blocks away and I'll be on him in a block and a half, and that's just laziness talking.

Then I remember the beat-up blue Chevy I saw in an empty lot about two blocks away. I remember thinking it was odd. The car was old but still had all four wheels and even it's hub-caps. Not usual for this kind of neighbourhood. The car must belong to the mark.

Slipping into a side alley I leap over a six foot wall, avoiding catching my hands on the broken glass and concertina wire strung over the top and dash across the back lot of a dry-cleaners, moving diagonally towards the lot with the car. This way I'll be there way before the mark.

I'm lounging comfortably against the car's hood when the mark comes panting into the lot, skidding to a halt when he sees me. Casually I light a cigarette with one finger; thank you god that my powers seem to be back in gear. I might need them soon.

'Bonjour Monsieur Crispin, you a hard man to find, no?' I smile at him turning to face him, letting him see my burning eyes through the drenched curtain of my hair. The man blanches white.

He's late twenties at most, younger than I would have thought, mousey hair thinning already. Thick horn rimmed glasses. Doesn't look like much. I wonder how he managed to con so many people out of their cash?

' W - who are you?'

I shake my head chuckling. 'Donald Crispin,' I say as I push away from the Chevy and step towards him. Yes the guys name is Donald Crispin – guess some people just have no luck at all. 'You've been a very bad boy, mon ami.'

'P – please – don't hurt me.' The mark looks like a landed fish mouth opening and closing and eyes bulging behind the spectacles.

I flip out a brace of cards, the motion so quick, so practiced, that to the mark it's like magic, the cards charge almost before I'm conscious of doing it. The Mark whimpers.

'Now, homme why would you t'ink I'm here to hurt you?'

'I - look you don't understand - ' He's backing up, almost trips over backwards.

'Where's de money, Donny-boy?' I snap the cards with the fingers of my free hand, making sparks spit crimson light.

'M-money? What money, I don't understand.' The mark is either stupid or incredibly brave. He's standing his ground even though he's seriously out-gunned; makes me wonder.

'De two million you stole from your patients, homme. De one's you promised to cure of deir cancer before you ran off wit' deir life savings.'

Normally I wouldn't talk so much to a mark but there's something about this whole set-up that stinks and I don't like it.

'What! I never - that wasn't - 'For a moment the mark is too outraged to be terrified. Then the fear swiftly returns. 'Listen to me. Listen, whatever you think you know about me - it's not true.'

'Is dat right?' I let the charge dissipate from the cards and with a practiced flicker of my hand their back in my pocket. The mark jumps as to him the movement is magic, now you see them, now you don't.

'P – please you've got to believe me. I'm not a doctor – I've never taken anything I wasn't supposed to – I'm just a lab technician!' Donny-boy waves his hands around in panic.

'I don have to do anyt'ing, homme,' I point out dryly, 'You on de other hand better get on wit' your story before I get bored, eh?' I snap my fingers about level with his face, though I'm still standing about ten feet from him. A spark of energy snaps to life and dies in an eye blink.

'Right, right,' Donny-boy licks his lips nervously, but he's not so scared now. I'm wanting to talk so he's beginning to think he might live. I'm beginning to think he might live too. The night is looking up.

'It's - look, it's like this. I'm a micro-biology grad-student, this guy – Dr Milbury - he does a lot of private consultation work, has his own lab.' The mark shakes his head vigorously, ' I just worked there, man, I didn't know what was going on, I swear!'

Know what was going on with what? Oh, well, when in doubt jump straight in.

'But now you know.' I hedge beginning to get a clue as to what is really going on here. And I'm not happy. Either Grey's been played by the client, fed a lie about our mark, or I'm the one being played.

Donny-boy is nodding he's head vigorously. 'It was an accident. I was looking for something else and this - shit, man, it was like something out of Frankenstein, like a stupid movie, this fake wall opened up and there was - ' The mark is talking ten to the dozen then he stops, blinks and goes pale remembering something bad, looks like.

'Dere was what?' I prompt. Maybe I'm a sucker but he's got me hooked. There's something about the way this guy talks, the obvious fear. I just have this gut feeling that he's telling the truth.

Donny-boy opens his mouth, about to tell me and the top of his head explodes in a shower of blood, bone and brain tissue. I jump back and into a crouch, but I already know that I'm not going to get a bullet to the brain.

Grey Crow sidles up out of the rain gun already disappeared back into the folds of his leather duster.

'He slipped past me while I was on the fire escape, must have seen me coming somehow.' Grey Crow explains, unnecessarily.

On the floor by my booted toes Donny-boy's glasses lay on the wet concrete, one of the lenses cracked. They must have fallen off when the bullet splattered his brain across the asphalt. I pick them up, wipe off some blood and water with my sleeve then slip them in my pocket.

'What type of ammo you using?' I ask, even to me my voice sounds odd, flat, brittle.

'Homemade specials.' Grey tells me. I nod; I know how Grey likes to make his own bullets, mixing all kinds of nasty shit together.

I make a show of looking over the body. 'In like a pin out like a pizza.' I look up at Grey Crow still knelt down. 'You knew the guy was innocent.'

'What?' He tries to give me blank face but he's not as good as he thinks and I know to recognise his tells.

'De mark; he wasn' bilking sick people at all,' It isn't a question. Bile churns in my gut. A tension head ache pings into life behind my eyes. 'Dis wasn' a run - dis was an assassination. De man didn' do anyt'ing.'

Grey Crow sighed. Not guilty, just irritated that I was bringing it up. 'He saw something he shouldn't have and threatened to report it. The client wanted him silenced.'

I stare down at the cracked concrete under my feet; the rain diluting the pooling blood spreading from Donald Crispin's head. 'You used me.'

I don't got many rules, I man enough to admit that, but me and Grey had one rule between us; I only go help him on the 'bring back dead' consignments if the Mark be guilty of something worth his life; I no assassin, I don't kill for money.

'It was a good run. Good money. The client has other lucrative work for us. This is a good deal Remy.'

I look up at him but Grey Crow's image wavers in front of my eyes, seemingly blurring as my vision breaks out into red and black spots. 'So why'd you lie?'

Grey Crow shakes his head but doesn't answer. I know the reason. He lied because I wouldn't have done it if he'd told me the truth. A thought, sharp and jagged, why do I care? I was okay with hunting the guy down and letting Grey kill him when I thought he was guilty of stealing the hopes and life savings of cancer patients, why is it worse to kill an innocent man? Innocent or guilty they die just the same.

'We need to get rid of the body.' Grey Crow says after a moment.

'Sure.' What does it matter? It's too late for Donald Crispin. It's done now. He's dead and I'm still alive. And it's still raining. What does any of it matter?

'Grey?' We end up dumping the body in the back of the Chevy. We drive out to the mountain roads and set about arranging an 'accident'.

'What?' Grey grunts as we roll the car over the edge of the winding wooded road, through the crash barrier and down into the conifers below. It took about a minute to have the whole car glowing like a star with explosive energy; one elephant, two elephant, three elephant. Booom! The explosion sparks dully, a faint orange glow as flames eat the evidence.

Grey Crow puts the lens cap back on the video camera that he had been using to record the completion of the job so the client will know we've done what he's paying for; which reminds me.

'What's de name of de client? You never did say.'

Grey Crow looks over at me, relieved that I'm not going to push about the fact that he lied to me. He hesitates just for a moment then answers.

'Essex. The client's name is Essex.'


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five: A Sinister Lunch Date and a Parting Of Ways

'Why do I have to be here?' I'm hung over and my hands are cramping again. It's barely passed noon and I didn't get to bed – or at least sleep- until dawn. I was really hoping to spend some more time with the sweet-eyed brunette I picked up last night. C'est la vie. Life is full of disappointments.

Grey Crow glares at me as we wait for the restaurant Maitre de to seat us, 'Quit whining Remy.'

The restaurant is up-scale without being overly pretentious. There's a line of people forming behind us waiting to be seated. The décor is airy, bright and elegantly refined. Creams and white oak panelling, tasteful brown leather recliners are arranged near the door for people to sit before they go in to dine.

Grey and I stand out like sore thumbs in this crowd of smart-casual business suits and designer labels; him in habitual all black attire and me in tight jeans, white t-shirt and red silk dress shirt thrown over the top, hair tied back at the nape of my neck.

Finally the Maitre de comes to us, curling his thin lips imperceptibly as he looks us over. I slip my shades off and give him a smile, watching the weedy little man blanch when he see's my eyes.

'Can I help you?' Translation: If you try anything I'm calling the police.

I open my mouth, though even I don't know what I'm planning to say but Grey Crow beats me to the punch. 'We're here to meet someone; name of Essex.'

The man looks down at his reservation book, _fastidiously - _a new word from the word a day calendar I picked up. He looks up at us as if mad to find that in fact there is a booking of that name so he can't deny us entry.

'Right this way, please.'

We follow the Maitre de through the tables; people look up as we pass. A cute lil' waitress with a juicy round ass backs into me as she draws away from a table and her tray laden with dirty dishes starts to fall.

'OH!' the waitress looks up at me wide eyed as I steady her and catch her tray without spilling the contents. I smile at her.

'Easy dere, I gotcha,' I give the fille a little head bow, laying on the charm. Grey Crow is glaring at me for causing a scene while the maitre de, like the waitress, and the people at the table, are wondering how I could catch both waitress and tray so easily without spilling either.

'Uh thank you.' The waitress remembers her manners.

'T'ink not'ing of it – ' I trail off raising my eyebrows expectantly.

'Oh – er Molly.'

I smile wider, 'Molly.' I give the name a little French twist, the femmes love that. Then I have to go before Grey Crow loses it.

Almost as soon as I leave Molly and the table she'd been busing I see the man we've come to meet. Don't know how I know it's Essex as I've never met the man, but I know.

He's sitting in the corner; ramrod straight posture, broad shoulders and clearly tall, taller than my 6''1 maybe 6''5 even. His short black hair looks almost solid, clinging to his head and glossy like patent leather. His face is oddly waxy looking, almost sallow. But it's the eyes that scare me.

Those eyes lock onto me. He watches me, and only me, as we come up to his table and the maitre de scuttles away. Heat seeker missiles couldn't hold a target like those eyes.

'Essex.' Grey Crow doesn't offer to shake hands but he inclines his head in respect, almost a bow.

'Scalphunter.' The voice sends a sliver of alarm through me. Not just because the man has used Grey's work name in public, but at the sheer coldness of it. If scalpels and syringes could talk they would have voices like this man.

'And you must be Remy Lebeau.' The man, Essex, goes back to staring at me.

I swallow, 'Dat depends on who's askin'.' I mutter not surprised that he knows the last name I'm no longer entitled to use.

Essex's eyes, as they continue to bore into me, don't look freakish or weird like mine, but something in them scares me. They should be red and cold as a frozen hell.

Essex inclines his head and we take seats opposite him. I keep my hands flat against the white table cloth, the tension keeping the tremor caused by both the cramps in my joints and nerves at bay.

'I am pleased with your work.' Essex intones. Another new word from the calendar, but it fits. A man like this don't just talk; every word he says seems to carve into the air the way names and dates are etched into tombstones, permanent and forever.

'You received the tape then?' Scalphunter asks, 'Good.'

Essex doesn't respond to him but keeps looking at me. I stare back at him refusing to show that I'm intimidated.

'Dere a problem, homme?' I ask in my most practiced bored tones.

A slow, razor sharp smile alters the flat, waxy mask of Essex's features.

'Indeed not. You have come a long way in these twenty-two months.'

I blink. 'Pardon?'

Essex smiles wider and in my peripheral vision I see Grey Crow stiffen. I tense sensing danger.

'Hi! Are you ready to order?'

Molly the waitress bounces into the growing tension like a bunny darting directly into the headlights. Essex leans back slightly into his chair and I'm so relieved I could kiss the stupid girl.

'Thank you but I will not be dining this day.' Essex says sounding like something from a costume drama. I notice for the first time that he doesn't even have a drink by his place and his complementary glass of water is untouched. Why meet in a restaurant if you aren't going to order anything?

'I will have a -' Grey Crow hesitates considering what he can order that won't be too much hassle. 'Caesar salad.' The idea of eating in the presence of Essex makes my gut churn, 'I'll have a Bud.' Hair of the Dog; I can't cope with this shit hung over.

'I take it the - mark - as you call it caused you no problems?' Essex inquired once Molly was gone.

'The consignment went without a hitch.' Grey Crow answers.

'What did you mean, I've come along way? What do you know 'bout me?' I want to know. I don't like this man. I really, really don't like this man. But there's no way I'm going to sit here dumb as a stump while Grey Crow makes polite conversation with this man.

Essex looks surprised, the expression not sitting well on his sallow face. The skin doesn't move right, almost like a latex mask. For a moment I think I see a dark shadow against the man's high forehead. Almost diamond shaped.

Essex turns to Grey Crow. 'You have not told him of my proposition?'

'What proposition?' A bolt of pure fear strikes through me. I grit my teeth as I realise that both men can clearly see my fear. A backlog of memories from the childhood I don't think about rolls forward.

Other 'propositions' made by men with friendly smiles and greedy eyes leading me by the hand with the promise of food and warmth into shadowy alleys and rooms rented by the hour.

'A business proposition I proposed to your partner dependent on the successful completion of your - consignment.' Essex answers the question I'd almost forgotten. Jeez I'm flaky today. I got to pull it together before I make a fool out of myself and Grey Crow.

Conversation halts as Molly bops over with my beer and Grey Crow's salad. She smiles prettily at me, 'Is there anything else I can get you?'

It's years of practice that makes me smile at her and deftly touch the back of her hand clutching her order pad with my finger tips, the ghost of a caress as I say in my smoothest voice ' Not right now, but I be sure to let _you_ know when I need somet'ing.'

When Molly leaves I turn back to Essex to find him staring at me again. I grind my teeth together and work at keeping my posture and breathing relaxed and steady. Under Essex's eyes I feel like a frog drowning in formaldehyde, waiting for dissection. Every considerable instinct I possess tells me to run.

'That young lady is quite taken with you, Mr Lebeau.' Essex manages to make a mockery of my name. I hate that he knows it. 'And all you did was speak a few words.'

I shrug, 'Don' hurt to smile at a pretty femme once in a while.' What's the big deal?

'Indeed.' Essex steeples his fingers on the table top, 'Scalphunter tells me that your extraordinary inter-personal skills and dexterity in interpreting and relaying facts have made the advancement of your chosen profession a much smoother process.'

I blink at him. 'My what?'

I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about. I look at Grey Crow for guidance. None of these words were covered in the word a day calendar.

'He means you can talk the hind legs off a mule and you lie easy as breathing.' Grey Crow translated.

I turn back to Essex who looks amused by this exchange, as much as a creepy, mannequin man can look amused.

I decide to try and take some control of this situation, 'No offence, homme, but you don' look like de type to care too much for a body's conversational skills.'

Essex smiles, a tight closed lipped smile. 'How astute of you, Mr Lebeau; indeed I have very little personal use for 'conversation' as you put it. Nor do I have much inherent capacity for the type of duplicity, subterfuge, and manipulation that you excel in.'

'No.' I agree voice thick with sarcasm, 'Din't t'ink you would have much use for 'conversation'.' If this guy tried to flirt with a girl like Molly she'd go running screaming in the other direction.

'Quite.' Essex nods curtly ignoring my sarcasm. 'However a prudent man like myself cannot help but recognise the value of the skills you possess. I have been following the progression of your - career – since that unfortunate incident on your wedding day, Mr Lebeau, and I am very pleased with your development.'

I can feel the blood leave my face, a lump of ice expanding round my heart. He knows - this batard -knows about Belle, the wedding. No one knows about that. Not even Grey Crow.

'I don' know what you talking about, homme.' I say through icy lips. How? How can he _know_ so much about me? I can see it in his flat dead brown eyes, he knows everything. I take a hard pull from my beer to cover up my nervousness.

Essex smiles again, 'Of course not.'

'What's dis stuff 'bout a business proposition?' I say when it seems like Essex won't say anything more and Grey Crow seems absorbed in his salad. I'm getting some weird vibes off of Grey Crow that I don't like. Not that we've been getting on too well since the thing with Donald Crispin anyway. But if you can't trust your partner who can you trust?

'I am a man with a,' Essex pauses to consider his next words, 'complex agenda. I have a number of interests and investments around the globe that require considerable attention.'

I glance at Grey Crow but he gives me nothing to go on, 'So?' I push,

'What's dat got to do wit' us?'

Essex fixes me with those lifeless eyes. Contacts; coloured contacts, has to be – or maybe some kind of artificial eye? That's the only explanation for the flatness of his gaze. Like he's blind but can still see.

'I have come to the conclusion that I require agents to work on my behalf, ensuring my investments and other interests are running according to plan and dealing with any problems that might jeopardise the smooth running of those interests with the minimum of disruption and the utmost speed and discretion.'

I didn't need a translation for that. I knew how to read between those lines. Essex was looking to have a couple of hired killers on his payroll to take out his rivals. Couple times some guy would come see me and Grey Crow with a deal just like this one. The answer was always the same. We were free agents and proud of it.

I turn to Grey Crow and wait for him to tell Essex no. He is the boss after all he's the one that makes and breaks the contracts. Sure I have a couple of contacts of my own like Spat and Grovel, done some solo runs, but it's times like this that I'm glad Grey Crow is the boss.

'Of course,' Essex continues into the silence that should have been filled with the sounds of Grey Crow telling Essex where he could shove he's deal and the two of us walking out of this restaurant.

'I require an undertaking of loyalty from you. My work is confidential and I require your total commitment. In return you will be handsomely rewarded for your services,' another razor thin smile.

'Grey?' He won't meet my eyes. In fact it's like a stranger sitting next to me. I start to get a sinking feeling in my gut. 'What's dis about? We don' do exclusive contracts.'

Grey Crow doesn't say anything and Essex continues to talk. His voice demands attention and I turn back to him. 'I assure you Mr Lebeau you will not find a better opportunity to advance your skills outside of one of the Thieves Guilds, and they, of course, are closed to you.'

'Grey Crow?' He continues to ignore me, just as I try and ignore Essex. Losing my temper, mostly because Grey Crow has me worried, I raise my voice, 'Scalphunter!'

He turns to look at me with eyes as dead and empty as Essex's, 'Take the deal Remy, while you can.'

'What de hell are you talkin' about?' I draw my hands beneath the table as a reflex, not even thinking of charging anything but Grey Crow reacts by drawing his gun from his ankle holster in one swift, fluid motion and pointing it at me under the cover of the table.

'Agree to the deal Remy.' Grey Crow -no, not Grey Crow - but Scalphunter, tells me in the flat voice I've heard him use when he kills people.

'What?' I can't take my eyes from his. I should be running, letting loose with my powers but I can't. This is Grey Crow. We're supposed to be partners.

'You will want for nothing, Mr Lebeau, money is of no consequence to me but I have plenty to offer. Under my commission you will reach the pinnacle of your profession. You will be the envy of the greatest Guild Thieves in the world, not just in these United States. All I ask in return is obedience.' I catch the smile Essex slants me, hard, cold, mocking, 'And you have proved to be a very obedient apprentice so far.'

I ignore him focussing my attention on Grey Crow. 'You took his deal din't you, mon ami? Dat t'ing wit' Donald Crispin, dat was just de beginning'. You were tryin' to trick me into going assassin for you,' my lip curls at the thought of Essex and I jerk my head at the man 'and _him_.'

Something occurs to me and I jerk my head round towards Essex. 'Shit! You're Milbury.' Essex inclines his head looking almost pleased that I've figured it out.

'Remy.' Grey Crow's dead voice drags my attention back from trying to figure out what I'm dealing with Essex –come –Milbury. 'Take the deal, Remy, don't make this difficult. It's no different than any other job we've done in the last six months. You said you wanted to be more involved in making the deals, meeting the clients. Here we are.'

My eyes widen. The last six months had been rough. Grey Crow bringing in all kinds of nasty runs that usually ended up in the mark riddled with bullets, no matter what I did to try and stop it. Jobs like the Crispin fiasco or the mess in Detroit. Had Grey Crow been working for Essex all this time – and getting me to help him?

'No.' Damn it. I'd really thought Grey and I were on to a good thing and all along he'd been playing me like the dumb punk kid I am. I had actually been stupid enough to trust him.

My chair falls over as I get to my feet, not caring that Grey Crow still has his gun pointed at me.

'Remy.' Grey Crow's voice is like the thin end of the wedge, a warning.

'No!' I'm so angry I'm shaking, vision goes black and red, can't see, can barely hear. 'Fuck you, Grey Crow, fuck you and your job offer.'

Reacting on instinct and I snap my fingers, still blind mad and trembling. The bowl of Caesar salad explodes as does the table it's sitting on.

I'm gone, vaulting over table tops on my way for the doors, snapping my fingers as I go and causing the large ceramic planters lining the path between the dining area and the entranceway to explode and block the path of any pursuers. That I don't know how I'm charging things without touching them don't matter to me so much as getting the hell away from Grey Crow and Essex.


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six: Hit Rock Bottom and Bounce Back To Hell

The cards slip from my hands as my fingers lose feeling. 'Fuck!'

The burning in my joints drags me to my knees. It hurts less to fold in on myself, to tuck my arms into my chest and lower my forehead to the floor leaning over my knees.

Breathe; in and out, in and out. Don't think, just breathe. Don't fight the striking tingling rush of pain that corrodes muscle and bone inside me. Fighting doesn't do any good; the urge to release the pain, to let go far too dangerous.

Hours, days, minutes; I don't know how long I'm crumpled on the floor like this. Waiting for the pain to leave – and it always does. The pain comes and goes like the ebb of the tide. Only the memories of what I've done stay constant, eternal; keeping me from sleep.

When I open my eyes and get up the clock radio says I've been out of it for a little under an hour. Okay, whatever. I can deal with that. I stagger into the hotel room's en-suite bathroom and pull the cord for the light. The fluorescent is too harsh for me, but I'm used to that.

Throwing cold water over my face at the sink I make the mistake of looking at my reflection.

'Oui, but you're a handsome devil, eh?' I mock my reflection.

My hair straggles over my shoulders and shorter strands fall over my eyes that look wrong in the mirror. Pupils are pin-pricks, reacting to the harsh glare of the fluorescent lighting.

Absently I scratch at the stubble covering my chin and jaw. Bare as a bebe's bottom until my twentieth birthday and now it takes a blow-torch to get rid of the stuff. I look at my own face staring back at me, familiar but strange for some reason; eyebrows with a life of their own, thick and high-arched and climbing up my brow. Proud nose that looks straight face on but has the Gallic hump in profile, thin, wide slash of a mouth; I try a smile and watch the smirk appear, swollen lip splits.

Skinny bag of bones, you are, Remy Lebeau. Ribs sticking out; look like a whipped dog, bruises shading from black to yellow with age. Cuts scabbed over. The purple bruises tracing my neck less painful now. Ignore the red prickle of rope burns tracing my wrists and forearms.

I haven't eaten in three days, can't even manage a Po-Boy without the charge blowing the sandwich up before I can take the first bite. Can't face leaving the hotel either; keep having flashbacks.

I remember when I was fifteen and still new to my powers I was carving jack-o-lanterns out of pumpkins. The pumpkin exploded. Held the stupid thing too long, didn't even realise I was charging. Pumpkin flesh went everywhere; wet, thick meat and seeds splattering the walls of the shed, covering me from head to toe. I remember laughing until I bust a gut.

Bile rises, gut clenching as the memory triggers another newer memory. I lurch to the toilet just in time. Vomit burns my throat, aggravates my cracked and still healing ribs. I try and breathe. Try to force the memories back down into the abyss.

The red lightening pain as the home, Lydon, snapped my fingers like twigs. Lips curled back in a sneer, breath foul in my face. 'Master Thief, try and pick the locks with broken fingers.'

I can't stop it then, memory smashing over me like a tsunami. I remember being tied to a support strut underneath that old Theatre; naked, a noose of barbed wire pricking my neck. Blind folded, helpless, the splintered wood of the support post cutting into my back; I remember being scared to breathe too deeply as the slightest swallow forces the barbs of wire into soft flesh.

'You made me look a fool.' Lydon's voice as he stalks around me, circling like a buzzard, he the man from Arizona, I remember the shock when he ambush me. 'Because of you I lost my place in the Miami Guild; mutant scum.'

A punch to the gut and I react automatically, body doubling up until the chain of wire penetrates flesh. A hot, liquid rush of blood runs down my bare chest. I'm going to die like this.

Snap back into reality. Into the present crawling on my hands and knees back into the bedroom and pull the covers from the bed over me; can't stop shaking. Fingers punch in the number on the cell phone before I know what I'm doing.

(………….Lebeau residence. Hello? Hello?) Mercy's fluid honey voice; the sounds of home, visions of antebellum architecture, Chintz furnishings and Spanish moss and Gardinia's and Jasmine on the balmy night air – I can't talk for a moment, it too much.

'……..Jean-Luc…' It hurts to talk. My throat protests and my words are barely audible.

(Who is this? How did you get this number?) Mercy's voice is strident, suspicious. I'm using the secret direct line that only New Orleans Guild members have. It changes every fortnight to protect the family's privacy. I had to pay top dollar for the number.

'…………Jean-Luc…..need to speak to him….' I switch to French. Don't know why. The rolling vowels are gentler on my torn throat. I jerk the blankets over me tighter, curling up in a ball with my back pressed against the bed leg.

There's a long pause on the other end of the line, filled only with crackling static. I wonder if I might lose my connection. Ha. Lose my connection. I lost that a long time ago. Jean-Luc, Henri, Mercy, they're not my family anymore; if they ever really were.

(…..Remy…..) Mercy's voice is flat with a dead kind of certainty. No pleasure that her long lost little brother-in-law is phoning after nearly three years away from home.

'……don't hang up…..please.' Hatred, disappointment, contempt; I don't care, so long as it's wrapped up in a deep south drawl and I can dream of fireflies, Chartreuse and King Cakes. Peel back the years and crawl back into the belly of a family that still needed me and wanted me.

(Remy, Saints above what have you done now?) I snap awake as a male voice comes over the crackling line. 'Henri?'

(You killed them. You killed twelve of the best thieves in the Washington State Guild, you crazy son of a bitch, and you have the gall to call on our private number. Are you trying to destroy our Guild?)

I bite down on my lip, rage and hurt choking me, 'Henri…..please…..want to talk to papa…'

(He's busy. Busy in a Guild Council meeting trying to get the Guild out of the mess you made. Jesus, Remy, what kind of an animal are you? You blew them to bits. How could you do that?)

'……It was an accident!' I cry shaking my head as if he could see me, 'Please, Henri, I didn't have a choice - they - '

(I don't want to hear it.) Henri snaps; harsh, cold. (You have no business calling this number, Remy; there is nothing here for you now, murderer.)

The phone drops from my fingers, already glowing with explosive energy. It hits the floor and explodes in a spray of plastic and acrylics, rubber and microchips, leaving a scorched hole in the carpet.

Where is it? Where is the damn bottle? I cut my knee on a shard of broken plastic from the cell phone as I crawl across the floor of the hotel room looking for my stash. I can't stay here any longer; can't keep living inside my head. The bed covers catch under my knee and I fall, face smacking into Berber carpeting.

Jack Daniels, blessed relief. The only way I can sleep without dreaming. Whiskey's bite hits the back of my mind like an avalanche. Cool, clean, and I'm free, floating over the filth and pain filling my head and reaching for the sky.

Tried Coke a few times, heroin – all that stuff. It was a rush but didn't last long enough. So now I stick to the basics. Mix it up with some sleeping pills when the pain gets real bad. Risk my life every time. Don't know why I'm not dead already, except drugs and alcohol burn out of my system too quick to do lasting damage thanks to my mutant freakiness.

But for a few hours I'm free. Floating on the edge of nothing, invincible, Un – fucking – touchable. I never needed the escape before. Never needed any of the shit I tried, it was just a little extra spice to life. Now I'm hoping for a quick exit.

I flop on to the bed still tangled in the bedding. I can think better when the pain fades. The booze helps me stay calm, that's all. When I'm well again I'll stop. When the heat around Seattle dies down, I'll stop drinking, throw out the pills.

I'll go to Europe. The Eastern Bloc is ripe for the picking since the Reds left and Capitalism rolled into town. Maybe dabble in a bit of corporate stuff in Germany; might even buy my way into one of the European Guilds.

Monaco. I'll work for a few more years. Build up the reputation and the cash I need and retire around twenty-five, yeah. Find myself a bit of European blue blood tail and open my own Casino resort. Live like a king on the French Riviera.

The bang of the locked hotel room door slamming open barely registers against the warmth of my fantasies. I'll have a fleet of European sports cars, a fountain filled with Champagne. No, that's tacky. I'll go to all the great European auction houses, buy or steal genuine Caravaggio's, have a room filled with Escher prints and Kadinski's; a Klimt or three.

Someone grabs hold of me, shakes me. I open my eyes blearily, vaguely wondering what be happening, though I don't really care. I see a man in a black leather duster and shades. Long dark hair tied behind his back at the nape of his neck. I should recognise him, but I don't really care enough to figure it out; I warm and peaceful, fading out of consciousness.

The man is swearing at me. I can sort of hear him, but it's distant and not important. All around me it seems that the walls are glowing a warm, thrumming pinkish white. The man grabs my face and I can't really feel it. It's like I'm watching everything from outside my own body.

I'm floating up on the ceiling watching as the man in black peels back the eye lids of the skinny, pale guy on the bed. The skinny homme not looking too good, he just lying there, eyes rolling back in his head; Jesus but he seriously wasted.

It don't help that the skinny guy is glowing, skin shimmering like quick-silver, turning every bruise and laceration on his body into a smear of black against the light. The guy don't look well at all, non?

The man in black tries leans over and backhands the homme on the bed around the face and, it weird but I feel it, vaguely, but then I'm floating again and none of this is really happening.

The man in black gives up trying to wake the other guy when the pink glow catches hold of his, admittedly spiffy, black duster and he has to rip the thing off and throw the ignited coat out of the window before it explodes.

'Remy, you stupid, stupid punk kid,' The man in black pulls a syringe from a slim cloth pouch attached to his belt and fills it with the contents of an ampoule before injecting the stuff into the guy on the bed. Who happens to be me; how weird is that?

'This better work.' The man mutters.


	7. Chapter 7

Part Seven: Propositioning Evil, First Steps On the Road to Damnation

Acid and fire ants crawling through my veins; I scream and lurch upwards back in my body, and my body hurts. Grey Crow grabs me and flings me over his shoulder like a roll of carpet and then I'm dumped in the bath tub and the shower is turned on full blast.

The icy water hits my glowing skin and spits like hot oil in a white hot skillet. I can't see through the solid curtain of sopping hair that falls in front of my eyes. It gets easier to breathe and slowly I start to be able to feel the water. It's cool and soothing against my over-sensitized skin. The glow starts to leave my flesh as my powers sink back under control. I feel - better?

'…Grey?' Scrapping hair from my face I blink at him. I haven't seen him in three months. Ever since we ended our partnership with me blowing up most of the restaurant he and Essex were in. What's he doing here?

Grey Crow just looks at me. He keeps looking at the marks on my neck, my body. He looks pissed – but also – worried? Something weak and needy rises up inside me and I throttle the pathetically grateful feeling that comes to me at the thought that Grey Crow might be worried about me.

Without a word he offers me a bottle of blue Gatoraid. I blink at him, confused, but accept the bottle. Uncapping it and guzzling on the Glucose rich artificial drink while the water pounds out the aches and pains in my body. I really am starting to feel better.

'What happened?' Grey Crow finally asks me as I get out of the bath tub shivering and wrap my straggling hair in a towel turban.

'What happened wit' what?' I turn to him slowly, not moving too fast or turning my neck too far as I sore and still got a bottle and half of whiskey swimming around inside me.

'With the Seattle Guild,' Grey Crow elaborates flatly. 'Word on the street is you blew up eleven of Seattle's best thieves - in some sort of abandoned theatre.'

'Oh - dat.' Darkness and pain threaten to suck me down, but I feel better now. Stronger, like a swimmer trapped in a rip-tide who's just found solid ground. I look at Grey Crow and paste a smile onto my face.

'You shouldn' believe everyt'ing you hear, mon ami.'

'Didn't think your power could ignite living tissue.'

I can't help it, I flinch. The mild question sparks a deluge of memories I desperately don't want to think about. Bleeding from the neck and unable to free my hands with fingers broken and feet bound; the blunt impact of fist and boot into my ribs. Then the blind fold blows away from my face and disintegrates into ash as I charge it in panic.

I see the face of the man who attacked me back in Flagstaff Arizona almost two years ago, the guy from the Florida Guild. I know his name now: Lydon. His dark face twisted in fury and triumph, Hands and clothes red with my blood.

Rage and fear combine like fuse and dynamite in my brain and before I know it the world goes white behind my eyes. Lydon's head explodes like the pumpkin had all those years ago. Just like the pumpkin, chunks of flesh and viscera fountain into the air and then all the others get blown to pieces with him.

Back in the hell of the present I catch my balance against the wall of the hotel bedroom. 'I had no choice. Dey were gon kill me. I din't mean to kill dem. Mon dieu I jus' wanted to live.'

Grey Crow nods his head like he knows what I'm talking about. Maybe he does. It can't be an accident that he tracked me down to this flea-pit hotel.

All twelve of them Seattle thieves, their bodies going pop like firecrackers. It like something out of a horror movie, rib cages bursting, arms flying from shoulder joints. I blew them to pieces just by looking at them; the whole world transforming into waves of light and friction. Seeing the microscopic particles that made the world go round, reaching out with a thought and watching them tear apart, ignite; explode.

Moving towards the bed in a tres unsteady line I slump down on the edge and drop my head into my hands. 'It was jus' a job, de Nao Ling t'ing in Miami.'

I look up at Grey briefly, hoping that he understand, that someone understand, that none of this should have happened. It was just one stupid job; nobody should've died for it.

'It was jus' a job. I been doin' shit like dat wit' de Guild since I was T'irteen. I din't know dat de Yakuza woul' blame de Florida Guild an' start a gang war!'

'Nao Ling? You mean what happened in Seattle was because of that job? But that was almost two years ago.' Grey looks surprised.

I snort back a bitter laugh, 'Dey din't dare touch me while I was wit' you, mon ami. Din't want to kill de great Scalphunter's partner.'

'I see.' Is all Grey Crow says, maybe he's trying to spare my feelings, but it still sounds like 'I told you so' to me. I should have never left Grey Crow; so what that Essex scares the hell out of me? That the man don't even seem human. I blow people to pieces just by looking at them – how much worse can Essex be?

'And the powers?' Grey crow snaps my thoughts back to him. 'The booze?' He adds pointedly looking at the discarded bottles dotting the hotel room floor.

For a moment I want to deny everything I can see he already knows, want to save my pride. But I'm scared, really scared.

'I can' eat, can' sleep. Have to wear gloves or I start chargin' what I'm touching wit'out meaning to. I can' stop it, mon ami.'

'This has been going on for months, hasn't it? You've been fighting your powers since the job in Detroit.'

I don't meet his eyes. I don't have the energy. 'I had it under control before, had to wear gloves most o' de time, oui, but I had it under control.'

'Until now.' It's not a question.

'Until now,' I agree.

'I came to get you Remy. Essex knew this would happen. He sent me to get you.'

I look at him sharply. 'What?'

Grey Crow shrugs, 'Essex knows mutants, he saw your power going hay wire the moment he met you, when you blew up that restaurant. He's been –,' Grey Crow hesitates then forges on. My blood runs cold. 'keeping taps on you these months. He lost you in Seattle until your power went crazy.'

'Mon Dieu,' I whisper seeing the waxy, mask like face; the utter reptilian stillness of the man Essex. The eyes that dissected everything they looked on. He had been watching me? And Grey Crow had been helping him? Why?

'He can fix you, Remy.' Grey Crow's words drop into the silence. They feel like ice, slippery and persuasive. 'Fix your powers so that you never lose control again.'

I look up at Grey Crow, growing angry. 'Let me guess, mon ami, dis magic cure, all its gon cost me is my soul, right?'

This man is the closest thing to a friend and a mentor that I have in the world now my pere and my frere abandon me. Yet he betrayed and lied to me once already. What's to say he won't do it again?

Grey Crow frowns at me, 'It's good work, Remy. Essex is well connected. You've been doing bank heists and jewel thefts for months. Under Essex you could go corporate again, military. You're too good for commercial theft or the scraps from the mafia's plate. Essex knows that.'

I stare down at my hands, loosely clasped in my lap. Hadn't I just been thinking about going corporate again? Getting into the serious high-stakes thefts? And if Essex could fix me – make it so I never hurt anyone like those men ever again –wasn't that worth the price of being on Essex's payroll?

'Get out.' I get to my feet anger giving me strength, straightening my spine, even though my head reeling. 'Get de fuck out an' don come back!'

'Remy – '

'NO!' My fist lashes out in a blur and I catch Grey Crow by surprise sending him sprawling to the floor. 'I don need you an' I don need Essex, hear? I will never work for him; never.'

Grey Crow moves with the reflexes of a snake. He kicks my legs out from under me and reaches out to grab my hair pulling me down to the floor. I twist and squirm but unless I'm prepared to let him scalp me I'm not going anywhere with him gripping my hair. The feeling of clear headed calm that takes away the pain in my body also slows me down, makes me clumsy. What was in that syringe? Or am I just drunk?

Grey Crow grabs my throat, big hand squeezing down on the bruises and breaking open the cuts. His boot comes down on my hand, my fingers still healing from the breaks. I choke on a scream of pain.

I try to activate my powers and nothing happens. For a moment I'm confused then I remember the syringe he injected me with before and my eyes widen in understanding. Memory descends again.

After Grey Crow left with Essex I stayed on in Seattle – had nowhere else to go. Not like I could go back to Clair and the bar. So I started to pick up some casual work, low level mafia bank jobs stuff like that. There was absolutely no way Lydon could have known I was in Seattle, let alone tip off the Seattle Guild that I was working on their turf, unless someone else told him first; someone like Grey Crow.

'You set me up. You set this whole t'ing up.' God but what I wouldn't do for a bottle of Johnny Walker right now. Or maybe just a snub nose Colt to the brain.

'Why?' It's the only question I have left. The only answer I don't want.

'Essex's orders,' He doesn't deny it. A snarl of frustration distorts his next words.

'Arrogant punk, if you'd just said yes to the deal none of this would have happened.' He's tying me up with some kind of hi-tech rope. It moulds to my skin like liquid rubber, with every movement it tightens.

I don't fight anymore. What's the point? I just have one other question. 'How long; how long have you really been workin' wit' Essex?'

I knew he'd been secretly working an exclusive contract with the man for the last six months of our partnership, but now I'm beginning to think it went back far longer than that.

Grey Crow's hands on me still and he sighs. 'You were a good partner, Remy, but Essex has had his eye on you from the moment you left the Guild.'

Sick, cold pain of betrayal; I've been played, played all along but why? What makes me so special?

'So where do you fit in, den? Why'd you ask me to join you?' I ask fiercely glad my voice is steady, might as well know just how badly I'd been played.

'I was supposed to train you. You needed some instruction before you'd be ready for Essex. He has a purpose for you.'

He pulls me upright and I turn to face him. I have this weird desire to laugh. I feel like I've been here before. With a man in a brown trench coat whose fob watch I stole on the Rue Royale. The last man to tell me he had a purpose for me.

'Got to warn you, homme, de last bunch of bodies dat tried to train me for dere own uses din't like de result.'

Grey Crow snorts a laugh. 'Essex is different from the Guild, Remy. You will do what he wants eventually, just like I do.' Something dark and bitter fills his eyes and then vanishes.

I've been here before, Déjà vu all over again. Someone I trusted has screwed me over, betrayed me, and I'm left bleeding and in chains. Almost expect the Tithe Collector to pop out of thin air and pass judgement.

'So what's de deal, huh?' I ask blandly. I give up. Concede to a twisted fate that likes to kick me down and spit on me. 'Essex gon give me de same rate as befor' or has dat offer been taken off de table?'

Grey Crow shakes his head, 'You should have agreed to the deal, Remy, Essex is not a man to take rejection well.'

I turn my head as much as I can to look at him. Something in Grey Crow's attitude is bugging me. The way he's holding my arms even though the restraints hold my hands and arms immobile just don't seem right.

'You coulda told me dat befor' mon ami. Coulda jus' told me you were groomin' me for somebody else.'

It's not the act that bothers me. It's not the fact that Grey Crow manipulated me, made me think we were equal partners and let me believe he had chosen me for his own reasons - hell I've been down that road before, right? It's the fact that I just didn't see the signs; that I got taken for the same ride again.

'Would it have made a difference?' Grey Crow asks me actually sounding like he's interested in the answer.

I snort back a laugh, 'Mon Dieu, Grey Crow, if I'd known my choices were takin' an exclusive contract wit' Essex or bein' brought to de man in chains I'd have taken de deal. I'm not completely stupid.'

A wry smile slicks across my face as I work to maintain eye contact with Grey Crow, 'Though got t'admit dat it might look dat way right now.'

'Essex didn't want you to know about him until he was ready for you. He had other interests to pursue.' Grey Crow admits. His hands rest lightly on my bare shoulders. Grey Crow is not a man who likes casual touching so him _holding _me is strange. But maybe I can use it?

'Tell me 'bout him,' I say as I lean back into Grey Crow just a little. I wait for him to stop me, to move, but he doesn't and I end up leaning my bare back against his chest.

Looking into Grey's hard, flat dark eyes from only inches away I can't afford to break eye contact, I don't really understand how it is that I can talk some folks into anything but if I can get it to work now maybe I can get free, non? I keep my tone of voice conversational. 'Tell me 'bout Essex. What's de man's game? He don seem like mos' de criminals we tangle wit'.'

Grey Crow barks a laugh, 'Give it up, Remy. I'm not some chick you can bat your eyelashes at and I'll roll over and bark. You'll know all about Essex soon enough.'

I smile at him slow and lazy, refusing to lose the tenuous thread of sexual tension I can feel building, a thread I intend to use to get out of these restraints, even if the thought make me sick. 'D'accord, Grey Crow, can't blame a boy for tryin' no?'

Grey Crow doesn't say anything to that and for a moment I let the stillness linger, him supporting all my weight as I lean against him; those large, calloused powerful hands gripping my shoulders. If Grey Crow was as immune to my 'charms' as he claims he wouldn't just be sitting here.

'Mon ami, de least you could do is let me put a shirt on, no? For old times sake?' All I'm wearing is an old, worn pair of jeans – and they soaked from the shower. If I'm going to be dragged in front of Essex bound and helpless I want to at least be dressed. When he hesitates I lay on the words a little thicker.

'You were right, Grey, shoulda listened to you. Never shoulda run from you in dat restaurant. But den nobody ever accuse me of bein' all dat bright, neh?'

The strange fluidic ropes react to body heat, slicking like oil and liquid rubber over my hands and wrists, breaking out of them would be like trying to peel out of my own skin. But now I'm not fighting to be free they loosen a little, giving me just a little give. Not enough to free my hands, but even a little wriggle room is better than none.

'Shoulda heard you out at least. Don know what was wrong wit' me back at dat restaurant, mon ami, why I din't trust you, why I ran. Sometimes my powers, dey hurt my head, make me crazy.'

Grey crow doesn't say anything and the blank look on his face is real gratifying. He's mine. I have him but what am I going to do with him? Can I take this the whole way?

'Grey Crow, mon ami, dere's a shirt in dat drawer dere, a black one - least let me go meet de man wit' some dignity, eh?' I jerk my head to point in the direction of the battered chest of drawers but I don't break the eye contact.

Grey Crow's hands tighten on my bare shoulders and he looks at me. I'm not a pretty picture right now, but that don't seem to bother him. Fine, I'm out of options; let's play the full gambit.

'Grey Crow what's de problem; dere somet'ing wrong, mon ami?'

I'm just talking for the sake of talking now, keeping the connection alive. Forcing myself to relax against him completely, moulding myself against him. He's falling. Something dark and angry in his eyes, but I see desire there too. I know how to play this game though I never thought I'd ever have to again.

I close my eyes and let out a soft sigh, deliberately turn my face so my cheek brushes his neck and my breath tickles his skin. Time to take the plunge, one way or the other I've got to make the play. Either the connection will snap or - or it won't.

Don't think about it Remy, don't choke on what you gotta do 'cause you just gotta do it, boy, there no other way of getting free. Just like back on the streets when turning tricks on your knees in back alleys all the options left open to you.

'Grey Crow?' I open my eyes and look up at him, the angle of my head, hunkered down in his arms, mean he can look down on me like a bebe in his arms. I concentrate on projecting the kind of vibes men like him get off on; I'm at his mercy. I need him. I'm helpless.

'It don have to be like dis, mon ami. We can go back to de way it was. Jus' de two of us, free as birds, livin' like kings. We don need nobody.'

Grey Crow's breathing has sped up, pupils dilating. Good, good, got to take it slow and steady, like finessing a wallet from a tight pocket.

'I was t'inkin' 'bout Europe, got to be all kinds of marks in Europe ripe for de pickin'. Essex can' be dat powerful. We leave for Europe he'll jus' find somebody else, right? Always wanted to steal de Mona Lisa. Dat would be fun, no? Paris, you ever been dere mon ami? Dat's a real beautiful city is Pa –'

Snap! The connection goes into overdrive and suddenly I'm choking on a mouthful of Grey Crow's tongue. Hate this. Hate this. How the fuck did my life come to this? I trusted this homme. But I can't show any of it. I got to stop thinking of Grey Crow like a friend. He was never my friend. Know that now. This is a mark, just another mark that I have to manoeuvre to do what I want him to do.

I break the kiss, swallowing bile. 'Mon ami, de restraints….' I flex my arms, caught painfully behind my back, as much as I'm able. 'Dis gon be much better wit'out dem, no?'

I'm breathing hard trying to keep from throwing up, Grey is breathing hard for totally different reasons. I let my eyes travel down his body, make my gaze as heavy as hands would be sliding under his shirt. Let him know just how much better things would be if I had my hands free, my tres talented hands.

Grey Crow shudders and reaches around me for the restraints. I hold my breath, viciously holding myself limp and pliant in his arms but ready to explode into motion the moment I'm free.

Grey Crow does something to the restraints and they leech off my arms, slithering away in a cold wave. The moment I can feel my fingers I buck my body off the floor and head butt Grey. Star bursts of pain ignite behind my eyes but I can't let it slow me down.

The hotel room door explodes as I look at it. Whatever was in that syringe stopping my powers has run its course. I hit the emergency exit doors in the hallway and leap over the stair railing to the second flight, then down past two more until I've reached the ground floor of the hotel. The exit to freedom is right in front of me.

Sunlight dazzles me as I stagger outside and the sound of slow hand clapping freezes me in place.

'Bravo, Mr Lebeau. A very ingenious escape plan and expertly executed.'

Squinting into the sun light I see a tall shadow, black as pitch leeching forward under the sun. Essex stands before me, dressed in a conservative business suit his skin even whiter than the last time I saw him. His eyes seem to glow like my own. A red diamond light ignites in the centre of that china white forehead and his whole body seems to ripple, like a mirage.

'Mon dieu.' I sink to my knees, exhaustion, fear and the constant pain in my head takes me down as Essex stops being a man and becomes - something else. A tall, powerful spectre with bloodless skin and solid red eyes, streamer like tassels flair out from his shoulders and a high, arched collar rises up from a dark, black blue bodysuit he wears like a second skin. He smiles and his teeth are razors.

'What - what are you?'

'Allow me to introduce myself, Mr Lebeau. I am Mr Sinister. And you are now mine.'

Behind me Grey Crow crashes through the fire escape door, gun drawn and furious. He grabs a fistful of my hair and rams the barrel of his gun into the back of my head.

Essex – no - Sinister, that's what this thing called itself, raises his hand and flexes his fingers. A beam of red light flares to life and blinds me before it hits me with the force of a hundred red hot pokers driving into my skull. The lights go out in my head.


	8. Chapter 8

Part Eight: The Devil His Due, Sinister Persuasions

The world is made of stainless steel and sterile white walls. Cords of fleshy cables and wires string the ceiling and the room is filled with machines that climb from floor to ceiling. Everything has a faint liquid red glaze, like looking at the world through a film of blood.

'Ah, Mr Lebeau, you have regained consciousness. Good.'

Sinister walks into view. He holds a pneumatic syringe in his hands. I'm tied to an operating table again. Don't need to be able to move to know that. Don't want to know what he's done to me this time, I don't know how long I been here but it long enough that I used to waking up in Sinister's lab by now.

Sinister turns my head to the side and stabs the needle down into my neck. For a moment everything I see flashes into white, burning nothingness then I blink and the red haze is gone from my eyes and I can see straight.

'Speak.' Sinister demands.

I look up at him for a moment. Weigh up the pros and cons of staying mute. Decide to play along for the moment.

'What'd you like me to say?' I croak, still managing to get the bite across. I may be a human guinea pig but I can still be sarcastic.

Sinister doesn't answer me and just walks off. I turn my head to follow him with my eyes. I have nothing better to do but watch Sinister play with his machines and samples. Most of the samples lining his air-tight cabinet shelf come from me.

I don't know how long I've been here. Time is meaningless. I'm meaningless. I spend my time lying here being poked and prodded, sliced and diced, by Sinister. Pain lets me know I still exist. I let my eyes slide shut. I'm always tired. Sometimes Sinister forgets to feed me and I have to wait for Scalphunter.

Scalphunter, not Grey Crow; I like to make the distinction. Grey Crow was my friend, my mentor. Scalphunter is my gaoler, my betrayer. I mix the two and I'll go mad. Sometimes I think about the outside world. I used to be free once. Sometimes I dream of jasmine and midnight jazz.

I wake up again when the metallic snap of the restraints retracting back into the steel table I'm lying on, wakes me. Scalphunter stands by the table and drops a bundle of clothing on top of me.

I move like an old man now. Hauling myself up off the table and staggering as my knees buckle and I have to grab the table to stop from falling. I struggle into the jeans and t-shirt Scalphunter has bought me. Glutton for punishment that I am I raise a hand to the back of my head.

All my lovely hair is gone but for maybe an inch and a half of length, hugging my head. The suture marks at the back of my skull are small, barely noticeable. Sinister is precise I'll say that for him.

I turn to Scalphunter and he hands me the metallic retractable bo-staff that was a present from my father when I turned sixteen. I snatch it from him like the precious lifeline it is, even though I know what it means. We're going to fight.

Glad to be free of the lab I lead the way, slowly, towards the area of Sinister's St. Louis complex that serves as gym and torture chamber both. Sinister is waiting for us.

The game is simple. Scalphunter fires blanks at me and I have to test my dexterity by missing them. Then I have to charge up throwing knives while he dodges from me. Sinister wants to make sure that the butcher job he did on my head and powers hasn't slowed me down any; hasn't made me less useful to him. So far I haven't disappointed. Almost wish I had, least ways that would be one way I could get free.

Panting and nauseous I wait for whatever happens next. Don't get me wrong I've tried to escape. That's how I know where we are. I got so far as the banks of the Mississippi. Lord but I could have cried to see the Big Muddy again; saw the St. Louis Arch and then Sinister caught me.

There's a chip or a tag or some weird shit in my head. A tracking device, most likely, and with it Sinister can find me anywhere I go. That's what he said. If I knew where he'd put it I'd lobotomise myself to get it out. He likes to torment me with it. Remind me of my 'station in life' as he puts it.

Sinister comes over to me and grabs hold of my head and shines a blue penlight into my eyes. The light seems to hit the back of my head and hurts worse than an ordinary light would.

I'm still seeing aftershocks when Scalphunter raises his hand and flings a dart at me. Half starved, half insane, and looking at a lifetime inside this hell-hole but I'm nobody's dart board.

Breaking from Sinister's hold I twist on my heels in a crouch and snatch the dart from the air, flinging it back at Scalphunter in one motion. My muscles have wasted and my throwing arms not what it should be - that's the only reason Scalphunter doesn't get a dart to the eye.

'Acceptable.' Sinister nods catching hold of me when I try to close with Scalphunter. It was a test, another damn test.

'Take Mr Lebeau back to his cell and see that he has food and water.' Sinister instructs Scalphunter. My stomach growls, food and water sounds good, even returning to my wooden shelf and rough wool blanket sounds good right now.

I live in an eight by ten concrete box. There are camera's hidden in recesses in the walls and most of the time I'm in almost complete darkness. I see alright because I have excellent night vision. There just isn't anything to see but darkness.

I have a commode now. A concession I won for good behaviour. Sinister wanted me to play fight with Scalphunter, fine. I wanted to not have to live surrounded by my own shit and piss. We made a deal.

It's all I have left to me, being difficult. If Sinister wanted me dead he could kill me anytime and there nothing I could do to stop him. That's just fact, practically Gospel.

But Sinister wants me to do things for him. Charge this, charge that. Tell me this, tell me that. Fight Scalphunter. Agree to work for him. I know so much more about Sinister now. His power, his influence - he seems to want me to know and he can get real chatty when he knows he has a 'captive audience' - he could make me do what he wants.

But he doesn't want that. He wants me to _agree_ to work for him and I can't understand why. I can't fight him but I can still refuse him. And I do. It's all I have left.

* * *

The strains of red hot jazz scream through my head in a joyous riot but it's getting dicey. Pain leaks around the edges of the private rhythm and blues concert I've got going on in here.

Use the pain, Remy, feed the fire. Mardi Gras and loose women, plastic beads and King Cakes, dancing in streets wet with foamy beers spilling out of plastic cups.

A lance of black green agony rides up each vertebrae; what is he doing to me? No, no - don't think about that - swallow the pain and turn it into something else.

The feeling; that moment when a woman gasps my name - that moment right on the edge of climax, yeah, that feeling, think about that: Belle? No, don't think about Belle, too painful.

'Mr Lebeau - Mr Lebeau, I know you are conscious.' Steel gouging granite; this voice does not belong in my happy place. It jars me. My safety net fails and I fall through red laced darkness into my own body.

'G-go t'hell.'

'Ah, my dear boy, do you still cling to such juvenile notions?'

Vision returns in red and black specks. Three Sinister faces peer at me. I spit at them. I miss. My mouth is dry. The world snaps into focus.

'Surely even you, with your backwards ideology and infantile mind, must understand that there is no hell and no heaven. The world is merely abstract chaos. Science is how we impose our will upon said chaos.'

'……..nur……not int……interested in ssss…..science.' I'm braced to a wall at wrist and ankle, pinned up at right angles so my hands are level with my head. Legs spread. I'm shivering as sweat freezes against my skin; worse than the torture is the monotony of his voice. Talking on and on about science and mutants, but mostly about himself.

'Of course you are not. Nor can a mind as undeveloped as yours hope to understand even a fraction of what I do here.'

Sinister peers at me and pulls a suction pad lanced with a needle from the side of my head. The needle slices my skin as he pulls it out. 'Rest assured Mr Lebeau, what I do I do for science. Your suffering furthers my research.'

'Den I guess I die happy knowing dat.' I hiss.

Sinister grins and it horrible, 'You will not die, Lebeau. I have work for you.'

'Quelle? An' here I t'ought I was here t'be your guinea pig.' I bait him because I have to. I have to remind myself that I'm still alive; that I still have the choice to resist.

Sinister frowns, 'I am no more pleased with this situation than you. I had hoped that your powers were salvageable at their natural elevation. That I was forced to remove the psionic component of your mutagenic potential was not my desire.'

'You wan' me to apologize for dat, homme? Not like I ask you to go diggin' 'bout in my brain.'

'Had I not you would have died. You had begun haemorrhaging, the stress induced manifestation of your explosive psychokinesis, for lack of a better term, had caused your brain to swell dangerously within the cradle of your skull. Had I not found you when I did you would have suffered a fatal Stroke.'

'An' I'm so much better off now, no?' I'm getting used to excruciating pain. It's almost normal to me now. With every violation the pain threshold expands. I get stronger.

'You are alive. Something a creature with as self-serving a mentality as you appreciates beyond all else. I will re-introduce the brain tissue I removed from you once I am satisfied you are capable of controlling that power.'

'Don do me any favours, monsieur.'

Sinister smiles, razor bright and feral, despite his perfect diction and coldness, but it's gone in an instant and he turns to me with red eyes that burn with ice.

'I have work for you Mr Lebeau, my plans are reaching fruition and I cannot wait on your petty defiance any longer. You have had your fun and I have indulged your delusions of choice but now it is time for you to earn your keep.'

'I will never work for you.' I spit the words at him. 'You gon have to kill me first.'

Sinister laughs. The sound boring into my soul and burning through my shame like sulphuric acid. 'I could kill you Mr Lebeau, kill you and return you to living flesh a hundred times, but time is of the essence.'

He step forward then and grab my head using a fistful of my short hair, wrenching my scalp and causing prickling pain to dance over the scars at the back of my skull.

'I have a different method of persuasion in mind for you. Your tolerance for the more mundane of physical tortures is impressive. So I have devised something else; perhaps being alone with nothing but your own delightful company will make you see the light, as it were.'

I try to keep the fear from my face. What does he mean; what new torment does he have planned?

'Bring it on, homme, never gon work for you.' Defiance is all I have left. All I have to fall back on and I'm not sure it's enough.


	9. Chapter 9

Part Nine: What Price Freedom? The Breaking Point

'What – what de hell is dat?'

Scalphunter has a gun to my head and I'm bound in the same liquid rubber, living rope restraints as when he took me down in Seattle. There's also a power suppressor built into the restraints that stops me using my powers. We're standing above something that looks like a huge cocktail shaker made of steel and ruptured with cables and wires, which sprout like hairy growths from its cylindrical sides.

'A sensory deprivation tank,' Scalphunter says he pushes me towards a pile of….what is that?....scuba gear? A wetsuit, an oxygen tank, a mask with blacked out visor.

'What's it do?' I ask still looking at the tank. I can't see what's so terrible about it. So there has to be something real bad.

'Nothing,' Scalphunter tells me. 'It does nothing.' He picks up the scuba gear. 'You need to put these on.'

'Why?'

'Because you'll drown if you don't.'

I look from him to the tank. We're standing on a metal platform hanging over the tank and I see when Scalphunter opens the hatch that the tank is filled with water.

'I'm not gon in dere.' The water laps to the edge of the round entrance hole. The whole cylinder must be thirty feet high. I'm not going in there. Floating in an airless, lightless, empty tube of water like a fly in vinegar.

'Yes, you are.' The gun pushes hard against my head.

'You won' shoot me; Essex wouldn wan' dat.'

'He doesn't want you dead. I don't have to make it a fatal shot.' He means it. He's totally serious.

'So dis is Sinister's big idea to make me behave, dat it; a water filled cocktail shaker? Mon dieu, I don know how I'll survive dat.'

'You could just agree to work for him.' Scalphunter states either missing or ignoring my iron heavy sarcasm. He gently squeezes the trigger, not enough to fire but enough to let me know, again, that he's serious. The gun is pointed at my left knee.

I grab the scuba gear and shrug into it. I learned how to scuba dive through my Guild training. I never had a fear of water. How bad can it be? Float around for a bit, could be relaxing, even.

'No flippers.' I point out, dryly looking at my bare feet.

'You won't need them. Get in.' He pushes me towards the round hatch. I sit on the edge and stick my legs in. The waters cold, I can feel it through the suit.

'Wait.' I turn to look at Scalphunter, 'How long am I going to be stuck in here?'

Scalphunter looks down on me and something almost like sympathy shades his dead eyes. 'Until it breaks you.'

Before I can respond he shoves me, hard, down through the hatch and I fall into the icy water. Kicking towards the surface I hear it when the clang of the hatch closing reverberates through the suddenly weightless, cold, dark, nothingness.

The emptiness rushes up from nowhere more complete than I've ever known it. It's not just darkness. It's absolute darkness. No light, no sound, I know the tube I'm in is not that wide but it feels like the depths of space.

I panic and try swimming; I kick my feet and end up smacking my head and back into the curved side of the tank. The oxygen tank clunks into the metal and a spear of real fear strikes me. How much oxygen do I have? Why didn't I ask? How could I be so stupid as to just jump in here?

I could drown in here. The water fills the whole tank. There's no air down here! No, don't panic, think. Think. Control your breathing, Remy, save the oxygen. Maybe there's some weakness in the structural integrity of this thing, something I can use to get out.

But I know there isn't. One look at the smoothness and clean curves of the metal tank and I know there's no bad join or botched repair job that can be manipulated. I don't even have my powers, not that I know if I can even use them under water – why didn't I ever try that?

The cold water seeps into my bones. I know that I'm wearing a wetsuit but it feels like I'm wearing nothing. The cold aches in my sinuses and numbs my limbs. The only sounds are the whir and click of the oxygen tank and my own breathing through the mouthpiece; the thump of my own pounding pulse.

Do something, Remy! Concentrate on something. Think about something, anything. Don't let the emptiness suck you under. That's what _he_ wants! But it's hard. I'd thought time was meaningless when Sinister tortured me but even then I'd been able to measure the passing days through the changing scene of lab to gym to lab and then to my cell.

Even the pain helped to focus my mind, helped me hold on to my pride and my anger, through every moment of pain and shame. I try and draw the anger to me now but it's like the water seeping into my pores draws out the pain, the memories, my anger, everything that reminds me that I am me, and looses it into the cold water that holds me floating and weightless.

How do I fight this? It's not a person or a thing. It's not pain or anything that's being done to me. It's nothing; absolute nothingness, seeping into my brain, cold, can't move my body. Do I even have one? Who am I? Is everything I think just emptiness? Where do I begin and the emptiness end? Or are we one and the same?

No, no. I'm Remy Lebeau. I know who I am, don't I? The Antiquity called me Remy, Le Diable Blanc, his white devil with the angel's smile. Jean-Luc gave me my family name and the family to go with it. And then he took it from me. So does that mean I have a name? Maybe I don't.

Can you have a name when nobody knows it? If I die here will I really die if nobody knows about it? Can a body exist if nobody cares if you live or die? Nobody even to notice you were there, in the world, at all?

Who is this doing the thinking? Who's asking these questions? What are questions? What is the world? Nothingness and cold, there is nothing but nothingness, then something else; something immediate and intense: Pain, brilliant pain.

Through the water that is me there is suddenly light, too bright, too alien, and it scores through me. Me? What me? The water is alive with an electric current that comes from – from where? Where am I? What is here? What is pain? Is this pain? Who is feeling pain? Is it me? Who is me – who is this who is screaming in the dark?

* * *

Screaming, screaming, burning, burning light; make it stop. Make it stop. Hands holding, touching, pain. The pain of having a body; blood and vomit and water and hard steel – that is all I know, all I am.

'Mr Lebeau? Mr Lebeau can you hear me?'

Whimpering on the floor I curl up in a ball. Noise, sound, words; don't understand. Don't want this. Where has the darkness and the emptiness gone? I was one with the void and now the vacuum is filled with pain and light and evil.

Hands are pulling at me, drawing me upright; can't resist. Don't understand how this body works. Forgot I had one. Is this my body? Do I have a body? How long have I had a body?

'His eyes are open. He's awake.'

A face in front of me; eyes, nose, mouth, a name: Grey Crow, Scalphunter. Betrayer! I want to hurt that face. The man behind it; I can't remember how to use my arms so I use my teeth. The angle is wrong. My teeth can't get purchase in the smooth skin of his cheek.

Someone pounds me onto cold steel flooring. I can see a line of rivets and bolts where one steel plate meets another. I can feel my fingers and my toes and everything in-between. Now all I need is to remember my name and I've got a full house.

'Mr Lebeau,' a pair of booted feet appear by my nose. Somebody squats down in front of me.

White face, pale as glass plate, blood red diamond etched into his forehead and hard, burning eyes: Sinister. Essex; the man responsible for all this, whatever this is, something bad, I can't remember. He's talking to me. Shhhh; listen, pay attention. This could be important.

'Do you know who I am?' Sinister asks.

I open my mouth. Wait how do I do this? How do I make the sounds? Noise and sound, speech, didn't exist to me until I was dragged from my safe emptiness.

'Esss……..Essex.' It's difficult to say the word. But I feel stronger having done it.

'Very good.' And can you tell me your name?'

Huh? 'Don you know already?'

I try to lift my head from the floor but Scalphunter pushes me down. He's straddling my back, keeping me down. I don't like it.

'I know your name, but I want to know if you do.' Essex said.

'R…Rem…..Remy.' Yes! Yes, that's me. I'm Remy. Tears prick my eyes. Sweet merciful god, I know who I am. I am me again. 'Remy Lebeau.'

A surge of memory, reality, comes roaring back like a tsunami. I remember everything again.

'Not going to work for you, Essex. Don' care what you do t'me.' I smile brightly. Pleased that I survived his last and best torture.

Sinister sighed, looking just marginally annoyed. 'I had hoped that three days inside the tank without food, water, or external stimuli would be enough incentive for you. Alas I see you need another lesson.'

Moving away from me Sinister speaks to Scalphunter without turning to face either of us. 'Put him back in the tank and programme the computer to maintain a constant mild electric current through the water. Forty eight hours.'

'Non!'

I struggle but my muscles don't work properly. Scalphunter hauls me towards the hatch. 'You can't win, Remy. Everyone breaks sooner or later. You can't out last Sinister, boy. He will still have use for you long after you've lost yourself.'

Then he shoves the mouth piece back in my mouth and a new oxygen tank, heavy enough to drag me down, onto my back, and shoves me into the hatch.

Nononononononononononononononononononononononononono!

* * *

Screaming, screaming, burning, burning light; make it stop. Make it stop. Hands are holding, touching, pain, pain of having a body; blood and vomit and water and hard steel.

'Mr Lebeau? Mr Lebeau can you hear me?'

Whimpering on the floor, I curl up in a ball. Noise, Sound, words; don't understand. Don't want this. Where has the darkness and the emptiness gone? I was one with the void and now the vacuum is filled with pain and light and evil.

'Have you reconsidered my offer, Mr Lebeau?'

White face, pale as glass plate, blood red diamond etched into his forehead and hard, burning eyes: Sinister. Essex; the man responsible for all this, whatever this is, something bad, I can't remember.

' Nnnnnur……………never.'

'This is getting tiresome. Scalphunter put him back in the tank. Increase the voltage on the current. Another twenty-four hours, I think.'

Tears seep out and mingle with the water that is heaven, hell, mother and lover to me. Emptiness rushes to greet me and I surrender gratefully, willingly.

* * *

Screaming, screaming, burning, burning light; make it stop. Make it stop, hands holding, touching, pain. The pain of having a body; blood and vomit and water and hard steel is all I am.

'Mr Lebeau? Mr Lebeau can you hear me?'

Whimpering on the floor, I curl up in a ball. Noise, sound, words; don't understand. Don't want this. Where has the darkness and the emptiness gone? I was one with the void and now the vacuum is filled with pain and light and evil.

'…….no more; no more, please no more.'

'What's he saying? Was that French?'

'Yes. I believe Mr Lebeau has finally grasped the reality of his situation, haven't you, Lebeau?'

'………yes.'

'Yes what, Lebeau?'

Light crawls under squeezed closed eyelids. Everything is pain and suffering. Just want it over. Want it over. 'Yes…. I do what you want. Don put me back in dere.'

White face, pale as glass plate, blood red diamond etched into his forehead and hard, burning eyes: Sinister, Essex, watching me, triumph in his gaze.

'Very well, Lebeau. Scalphunter take him back to the lab. He requires nutriment and a saline drip.'


	10. Chapter 10

Part Ten: Dancing With the Devil Under the Bright Moonlight. A Sinister Apprenticeship

'You want me to steal a necklace?' I'd laugh if I had the energy.

'A choker, actually, and yes: I want you to acquire the artefact. It is immeasurably valuable,' Sinister states.

The computer screen in his secondary lab is stuck on an image of a black velvet and lace choker with a square gold plaque etched with a grinning face. It doesn't even look expensive.

_Immeasurably valuable _my skinny white ass.

'The artefact is being held in a secure vault in Vancouver. The current – _caretaker_ -of the artefact is a practitioner of the mystical arts. The security systems employed to keep the artefact secure will be augmented with this - _magic._' Sinister sneered.

'Ooooookay.' I breathe out. Voodoo in Vancouver. Why the hell not? The devil himself was shacked up in a secret lab in an abandoned tenement block in East St. Louis.

'What's dis guys name?'

'Whom?' Sinister seems to have slipped into his thoughts. He does that from time to time. The last few weeks as I've been working on getting my strength back I've had chance to watch and learn a few things. Sinister is on a dead line.

'Dis _caretaker _de one dat's holdin' de necklace.' I resist rolling my eyes; nothing worse than an absent minded client. 'What's his name?'

'Van Meer. Ivor Van Meer. He is irrelevant all I require is the artefact.'

I shift my weight on my perch on the metal backed chair and scratch at my head. My hair is coming through again.

'Mebbe he is to you, Essex, but den you're not de one dat's got to get through de man's securities, neh?'

I've started to put on weight and muscle too; don't feel as weak anymore. Sinister keeps feeding me this 'protein supplement'. I don't know what's in it and I don't care. All I know is I'm not in pain anymore.

'You perceive a problem?' Sinister asks. He's talking very mild; his voice is like thin ice cracking.

'Non. Don 'perceive' anyt'ing yet, don know anyt'ing bout de situation. But I've got some experience working jobs where dere's weird stuff involved.' I shrug. Weird and kooky is kind of my speciality.

'Dere a deadline for dis job?'

Sinister drums his fingers against the metallic panelling of his control centre.

'It is time to make my move, however stealth is of the essence. I need this artefact but I cannot afford to alert my enemies to my movements prematurely.'

'D'accord. So you want de job done fast, but not stupid fast.' I nod my head.

'I've got de time to figure t'ings out on de ground in Vancouver, den?'

I chew over a couple of details. 'How 'bout fall-out? You want a smokin' gun left or you want dis to be a t'ief in de night job?'

Sinister cocks an eyebrow. He has much more expression on his face now that he's not trying to play human.

'Pardon?'

I bite back a smile. The jargon gets them every time. 'Dis Van Meer is gon notice when dis necklace goes missing, right? Chances are he'll try and find out who took it and get it back.'

'You must insure you leave no opportunity for him to track you down.' Sinister says deadly quiet like.

' Well, yeah, dat's a no-brainer.'

I flex my fingers. My hands and joints don't hurt anymore but I still feel stiff and tired a lot.

'What I meant was do you want me to place a pointer to one o' de guys enemies so he t'inks dey took de goods, or just make it like magic, no trace?'

Sinister considers, 'You believe you could place such a - 'pointer' - as you call it without undue risk?'

'Sure. It's standard t'ief policy: whenever possible pin de blame on someone else. De man's got to have enemies. Dese mystical types always do. I just got to find out who dey be an' where dey be.'

'Then you had better be going. I will alert Scalphunter.'

'No.'

I can't help tensing when he says that name. Don't want to be anywhere near that man now I'm free of my cell.

'You want dis job done, den you let me go alone.'

Sinister looks surprised. Probably doesn't expect me to argue. Maybe part of me doesn't expect me to argue either. But then I've always been an ornery little cuss.

'Indeed. And why should I acquiesce to this request?' Sinister mocks me; reminding me that I'm in no position to make demands. It don't matter. I'm used to punching above my weight. I shrug and give him my best smart-ass grin.

'You win homme. I know better den to cross you.'

Just for an instant a yawning chasm of black, silent emptiness rises up from a deep fissure in my head, tries to suck me back down. Yeah, I know better than to cross Sinister.

'You been watchin' me since I left Nawlin's, you got de resources to find me wherever I go, oui? So you can let me go alone an' do what I do best.' I tell him straight, 'De reason you wanted me in de first place was because I'm de best damn t'ief to come outta de Guilds in fifty years.'

Sinister studies me. I manage to keep my poker face in place under his red, piercing eyes. It's true I do work best when I work a job alone. Even when Grey Crow and me worked together he'd let me do the thieving on my own.

Maybe Sinister knows this or he sees the sense in what I'm saying, he nods his head slowly.

'You will report in regularly. I will send Scalphunter if I believe you are not working to my satisfaction.'

I grit my teeth. 'Nobody ever had cause to doubt my skills, homme. I know how to do my job.'

Sinister smiles, 'Indeed. You had best hope you do, Lebeau. I am not a man you want to disappoint.' He pauses for a moment, 'Again.'

I slip off my perch and start towards the door to the corridor and the illusion of freedom.

'Yeah, I figured dat out already.'


	11. Chapter 11

Part Eleven: Malice aforethought - possessed by evil. 

The Van Meer Estate is a study of cliché and stereotype. The stone pile even has a freaking tower! Pitched roofs with red tile shingle and honey stone walls choked in creeping ivy. All it needs is Rapunzel to drop her long golden hair and we'd be set for Disney.

The CCTV and electric fence around the perimeter of the estate are barely worth the mention. The topiary carved dragons lining the long driveway would be a better deterrent.

The portico covered front door beckons as I streak across the gravel drive not making a sound.

Lights, camera, action; it's show time boys and girls!

'Open the door - open the damn door!'

Van Meer has a brass door knocker shaped to look like a rams head; real subtle, that. I pound my bleeding fists against the glossy black wood door and cultivate my shivering.

It's raining which helps my disguise some. I'm wearing a green t-shirt, torn artfully and liberally splashed with my own blood and ripped, mud splattered jeans. The fact that I still look like a famine victim will help my act.

The large doors are swung open and a dark haired pixish looking girl, somewhere between fifteen and eighteen stands framed in warm, yellow light. A large and spacious marble hallway with Gone with the Wind inspired staircase is visible beyond her.

'What is the meaning of this? Who are you? Wha- '

I do a slow collapse to my knees on her front stoop. I'd fall into her arms except I'd probably knock her flat and that would be bad. She's tiny, maybe even under five feet tall and cute as bugs ear.

'Oh, my god; are you alright?'

She watches me fall. I make it slow, graceful. My hair, just long enough to brush my forehead is carefully mussed. I let my eyes slip shut, mostly because I don't want my eyes to ruin the whole act before I'm through the door.

'Dad; Dad? Get out here. Lu-ann? Call 911!'

Ooooops; don't want that do I?

'No –please – mus' speak with ---Van Meer. Need to warn him -----Nikolai.' And fade to black.

The girl is kneeling down trying to hold me upright. I slide sideways to slump, gracefully unconscious, on my side.

'Nikolai?'

I hear the girl's breath hitch at the name. Unless I'm very much mistaken this is Delilah Van Meer; the daughter of Ivor Van Meer. Nikolai Rasmussen is Van Meer's arch-nemesis or whatever these black arts weirdo's call their enemies. The trap is baited.

'Let's bring him into the house. Lu-ann, get some warm water and the first aid kit.' Delilah gives instructions like somebody who's used to getting her own way.

Though I keep my eyes closed and my body limp I can feel it when hands grab me and haul across the threshold. I keep my smile on the inside.

Hallelujah. The magical Wards that protect the Van Meer estate are now useless. Not only has a member of the household given permission for me to enter, but has dragged me in bodily. There goes security measure numero uno.

'Delilah? What're you doing? Who is this man?' A male voice, slight accent: Dutch. Hello, Ivor Van Meer.

'Daddy, this man turned up on the doorstep. He said he needed to speak to you then he collapsed.'

'And you _brought him in here_?' Ivor demands. I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from laughing.

'Daddy - look at him, he needs help.' Oh, Delilah, sweetheart, you got no idea.

Time for act two; better get that Oscar ready.

'Nooooooooo!'

I surge upwards with a pretty good tortured scream, even if I do say so myself. I raise my hands to my face, before anyone can get more than a glimpse of my eyes. I'm not ready for my big reveal yet.

Then, although I don't enjoy this part of the act, I start to claw at my face with my fingers, glad that I purposely cut my nails before starting out tonight. Spitting guttural curses in pseudo-Latin I writhe on the black marble stone like a man possessed. Least that's the look I'm going for.

'Beelzebub's cajones what's wrong with him?' Delilah demands and I turn a laugh into a choking scream. _Beelzebub's cajones? _Who are these wannabe's?

I feel the change in atmosphere as Ivor and Delilah lean over me and I flop onto my back and snap my eyes wide open. Get a load of the devil eyes, mes amis.

'Mary and Joseph,' Ivor hisses through his teeth reeling backwards as he see's my red on black eyes. 'He's possessed. A demon is in him.'

'Are you sure?' Delilah whispers, taking two big steps backwards. Don't want to get too close to the demonically possessed. Who knows what diseases hell-spawn have, right?

Okay; time to put this thing to bed. Surging upright I grab hold of Ivor by his brown, silk shirt. Ivor is a slim built man with short salt and pepper hair and bright blue eyes. He looks scared when I push my face into his and growl in my best Exorcist impression.

'IVOR VON SACHENBURG' It wasn't hard to find the man's real name once I started looking. _Van Meer, huh?_ The man has pretensions coming out of his ass.

'IVOR VON SACHENBURG I HAVE A WARNING FOR YOU.'

Now most self respecting Vaudun practitioners back home in the Bayou would have kicked my over-acting ass out of the door by now. But this wasn't some Voodooienne or Bokor from the Bayou; this was a Dutch con man faking a living as an exorcist and 'paranormal consultant'. Ivor Van Meer was eating this stuff up.

I decide to go straight for the coup de grace. It's risky. I'm relying on Sinister telling me the truth about my powers now; that I can't charge living tissue anymore.

Ivor Van Meer better hope Sinister wasn't lying or his brains are about to be painting the walls.

I grab the sides of his head and charge up my hands. The glow starts immediately and I hear the yelping squawk Delilah emits when she sees my hands. Ivor can see my glowing hands, can probably feel the tingles but just as Sinister promised his head isn't exploding.

'…………..help me……….please……….' I whisper, trying out a different voice from my emissary from hell booming voice; got to get the pitch right. How would a possessed human sound?

I let go of Ivor's head and sink back down to the marble floor. Nice quality, there must be money in the exorcism racket.

'Daddy; Daddy what do we do? Look at his eyes, they're red! And his hands…'

'Quickly, let's take him to the basement. We must secure him and decide what to do.'

Score! The basement; the most fortified part of the house, the place Ivor keeps his magical collectables.

The guy is a sham in most of the mystical stuff he does but he does still have some real tricks up his sleeve. And some highly prized collectables.

There's a lot of running about as the help build up the courage to pick me up and carry me down to the basement. On the way down I check out the layout of the main house.

Entranceway has three doorways leading off it; living room, some nice gold brocade upholstery, a Van Meer portrait. Hein? I'm sensing a theme here, most likely a reproduction.

Back hallway, probably leads to the kitchen; a closed door, maybe leading to a study or private living room. Take the back corridor passed the kitchen, utility room and domestic staff break room, make a left, then a right.

Thirteen concrete steps down to the basement. Basement is laid out like a private museum.

Recognise some of the stuff behind the display cases – I was raised in Voodoo country after all, some of the other stuff looks like it might even be valuable.

There!

There lying on a cushion of red velvet, fringed with gold thread is the prize. The old choker with its worn and scuffed gold face and threadbare velvet chain looks cheap and tacky on the cushion. Malice; that's what Sinister called it.

_The choker is merely the physical vessel containing a neuro-bandwidth non-corporeal consciousness. It is a parasitical entity that attaches itself to a physical host, co-opting the function of said body. _

_Quelle? _

_Really, Lebeau, it is not that hard a concept to understand. Very well, I will explain it in terms even you should be able to grasp. Whoever wears the choker is possessed by the creature inside it; Malice. _

The hired help drag me past the museum and into a smaller room. Re-enforced concrete and hard wood door; chains hang from the wall and shackles drape the floor. A large industrial drain sits squat in the middle of the concrete floor, ho-hum, just your standard torture chamber; lacks the stainless steel elegance of Sinister's lair.

I remain passive as the heavy-set black woman and middle-aged, short Hispanic man snap shackles around my wrists but not my ankles. They frisk me and find the incriminating evidence I want them to; the things that point the finger of blame squarely at Rasmussen.

To maintain the act I keep up a steady stream of moans and groans, rolling my head and keeping my eyes half-mask. Inside I'm laughing; the lock mechanism on the chamber door is pathetic.

Ivor and his daughter come into the room. Ivor comes in carrying a bunch of - I don't know what – knives, religious paraphernalia, candles and Delilah has already set a silver censer to swinging. I feel like I'm in Catholic Mass.

'I am Ivor Van Meer, to what or whom do I speak to?' Asks the mark and Jesus it an effort not to laugh outright.

He practically vibrates with excitement. I've done my research on this guy. He's a professional con artist, but he's gone native. Started to believe his own lies; nothing worse than a con man who believes his own lies.

I don't try to hide the snicker that hisses through my clenched teeth this time. I release a slow charge that causes the links of the chains to glow. Not enough to explode just enough to scare Ivor and his daughter.

'I repeat who am I addressing?' Ivor keeps his voice loud and strong. Delilah is watching me fascinated.

'Who would you like to address Ivor Van Meer?' I ask swallowing my accent but keeping my voice more or less normal. No need to over do it; yet.

When he don't answer I decide to up the ante a little, 'Perhaps you would like to speak with Gerta, Ivor?' I smile. It's not a nice smile.

Switching to the few lines of Dutch I've memorised for this very performance I play the role of poor Gerta Von Sachenburg; mother of Delilah, wife of Ivor who died under 'suspicious' circumstances in Holland. The investigation of her death resulted in Ivor leaving for America in haste.

'Ivor? Delilah? - cabbage child, is that you?' Finding out what Gerta's pet name for her daughter was had cost a pretty penny but the effect it had on both Delilah and Ivor paid dividends.

'Ivor what is this? I can't move. Why can't I move? Ivor?'

I rattle the chains, letting the charge build a little more in the metal. Then I let the charge fade dropping my head and pretending to pass out.

'No, this can't be.' Delilah rushes forward; gotcha, p'tite.

'Mom, Mom?' She reaches me and grabs hold of my tattered t-shirt. I squint up at her, my eyes are watering from the incense burning in the censor and if that looks like tears so be it.

'Delilah………' I try to accent the name. Give it a Netherlands twist.

Ivor snaps into life and drags his daughter away from me. I pick up the cynical laughter again. It's not an act. This is laugh out loud funny.

'Demon!' he spits at me and I hear echoes of all the times I was called demon or 'devil' growing up on the streets.

'Who sent you here? What warning do you bring?'

I smile at his daughter as I feed him a line. 'You are a wicked man Ivor Van Meer, you have something my master wants. You're about to lose everything you value.' I don't take my eyes from Delilah. She can't take her eyes off me.

Ivor grabs up a knife and advances on me. I watch him blandly. I can blow these chains to pieces in the time it takes this loser of a con man to make up his mind to kill me.

'……..please, please……..sir, help me. Kill me. I burn. I burn. Kill me…' I whimper, hoping that I'm lying as well with my eyes as I am with my words.

'Who are you?' Ivor demanded. Not happy that I can't take my eyes off his daughter.

'J…James. James White.' Hell, it's as good a name as any; always liked the sound of the name James. Don't know why. I throw in a fake shudder and make a pained face letting my eyes close for just a second.

'Who do you work for?'

'Mur – Mr Rasmussen.' Nikolai Rasmussen was the only other magical game in town. No more adept than Ivor really. But a damn sight more vicious.

They fought over the bilking rights of little old ladies wanting to contact dead husbands, or gullible yuppies who thought faulty plumbing was a poltergeist infestation.

'Please----what's happening to me? Pain -'

I throw back my head and scream, Ivor jumps back. I let the charge race through the chains again.

'It burns----agony through my body----' I scream again and thrash against the chains. I think I've missed my calling; should have been an actor. Deciding I've given Ivor Van Meer enough information to jump to all the wrong conclusions I decide to call an intermission.

Nothing they do can 'rouse' me. After months under Sinister's tender mercies there's not much I fear except him. And not much I can't fake my way through.

I think I actually do fall asleep for a little while because when I pay attention to my surroundings again, Delilah Van Meer is using a cool cloth to wipe my brow. It's nice so I just settle back and enjoy it for the time being.

I let my eyes flutter open with a soft groan once I ready to start the charade again. She jerks her hand away as I look at her. I'm still chained to the wall, knees scraping the floor. My arms have fallen asleep. Need to get these chains off me.

'You,' I whisper. 'Delilah?'

She looks at me suspiciously but nods.

I smile. I don't know if it's nasty or nice, truthfully I'm not sure I have any 'nice' left in me.

'You look like your mother; so small and delicate.' It's a guess but it hits the mark. I can tell when her eyes widen.

'How do you know that? My mother's been dead years.'

Chuckling I give her my best, devilish grin. It's worked before.

'What care I the span of mortal lives? Hell is very wide and we see everything.' I purr. I think I heard this line on a late night Movie or something.

There's a certain irony in impersonating a devil that appeals to me. I'm trapped in service to a real one after all. Lot of people back in Nawlins told me I'd end up this way, come to mention it.

'What are you?' Delilah recoiled further. 'I'm not my father I don't believe in hell.'

I give her a genuine smile this time. Neither did I once, then I discovered hell was an abandoned warehouse in East St. Louis.

'Where do you think I come from then, sweet?'

Delilah tenses, 'I think you're some lackey of Nikolai's, sent to upset my father.' She sneers, 'I won't be fooled by Parlour tricks.'

I let my powers flow again and watch her eyes grow wide. I keep a lock on her gaze though, pulling her into my eyes.

'Really, sweetness, then why is your heart racing? Why are you moving towards the door?'

'It's a trick. What you're doing is a trick; nothing but theatrics. My father does things just like it.' Her chest is rising and falling rapidly. She's scared now.

'If it's all a trick, beautiful, why run away?' I let the power fade again.

Going to have to wrap things up quick before the integrity of the chains is totally compromised. I don't want to break free until I have the prize.

'Don't you want to know how I do it?' I question, fishing for reaction.

Another good guess as curiosity sparks in Delilah's eyes. She bites her lip. 'I'm getting my father.' She tells me but doesn't move.

Her eyes are locked on mine. I smile at her. 'Is that what you really want to do, pretty one? Aren't you curious? Don't you want to learn a new trick?'

Delilah looks torn. 'Are you really a demon?' she demands.

I grin. 'What do you think?'

Delilah frowns, 'I don't see any horns. Aren't demons supposed to have horns?'

I laugh out loud at that, keeping eye contact, 'Only the ones with no sense of style, sweetheart.'

Delilah smiles, 'What about cloven feet.' She looks down at my sneakers,

'You sure don't look like you have hooves.'

'No? Want to come closer and see for yourself?'

Delilah hesitates some more then steps closer. 'You don't seem very evil to me. Shouldn't you be cursing and projectile vomiting?'

I roll my eyes, though truthfully I like this girl, she's got some fire to her. Shame really that I've got to do what I've got to do.

'Like I said, darling, that kind of behaviour is déclassé in the extreme.'

Delilah smiles, 'I don't think you're a demon at all. You don't look that much older than me. You're not evil.'

She makes the mistake then to step into my reach – once my arms are free that is.

'That's where you're wrong, princess.'

It takes no time at all to blow the chains from the wall and explode open the shackles on my wrists.

Delilah cries out and tries to squirm away but I grab her, moving faster than her even with pins and needles numbing my arms from shoulder to fingertip. I catch her up in my arms and clap a hand to her mouth.

'Easy now, easy,' I soothe.

'Not going to hurt you, Delilah. Just need your help with something.'

She fights me all the way across the room, bucking like a bronco. I throw her over my shoulder. The Petite can't weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet.

Any minute now Ivor and whoever else is in the house will be down here. Those explosions weren't quiet, but then explosions never are. I have to be quick which means that I can't afford to think too much about this next part of the job.

_You want me to do what?_

_Really, Lebeau, there is no need to shout. You have already told me your plan for gaining access to the artefact. It should not be hard to find a host body for Malice in the process of acquiring the object._

_Dat wasn' part of de original brief, Essex. You never said anyt'ing 'bout possessing people._

_Nor did you ask, Lebeau. In any case, you should find Malice an asset in aiding your escape from Van Meer's estate._

Not bothering with subtlety I use an elbow to smash the display case after first throwing a charged blade at the control box for the infrareds around it, all why holding the squirming Delilah over one shoulder; how that for multi-tasking, eh?

Grabbing the choker from the floor where it fell I tug it around Delilah's neck, refusing to acknowledge her fear, her tears, or the fact that I don't know what this will do to her.

She can't be more than sixteen. She's a child. Still I do what I have to do to survive. And it is survival. I won't let Sinister torture me again. No matter what I have to do, or who I have to do it too.

The door to the basement museum flies open and Van Meer runs in waving a ten millimetre firearm and a magic wand, least that's what it looks like.

I drop Delilah to the floor, she seems to have passed out anyway, and throw myself towards Van Meer, hoping my suicidal forward lunge will startle him.

Van Meer squeezes off a couple of shots but I twist and pivot and sail over them colliding with Van Meer and smacking the gun from his hands.

We roll across the floor. I need to get him away from the staircase leading out of the basement, grab Delilah and get gone.

Van Meer waves his wand in a half-circle and I can't help being surprised when the air shimmers and something like a gale force wind smacks into me knocking me into a wall. Guess there's more to Ivor's magic than I thought.

I throw blades of broken glass in a wide arc to take out some of the other pieces in the museum and have Ivor hitting the deck. Ivor rolls behind one of the broken display stands chanting something in a language I don't recognise.

Suddenly Delilah leaps to her feet, a wide and disturbing grin on her features. She holds a ceremonial, jewel encrusted six inch long blade in her hands.

'Delilah?'

Ivor pokes his head out in the open, relief totally obvious on his thin face. Delilah turns to look at him and her lip curls.

'Delilah? Do I look like a Delilah, to you sweetie?' Even her voice sounds different; older, meaner.

Keeping myself very still I watch as she walks over to her confused father and plunges the blade into the side of his neck, up to the hilt.

'It's Malice now, dearie.'

Blood fountains from the wound as she wrenches the blade from Ivor's body. Blood bathes the girl's face as it twists into a satisfied grin and she turns towards me.

'Ooooohh look, a pretty one.' She stalks towards me; a street walker strut. I leap to my feet. More glass shards in hand, ready to charge.

'Malice,' she hesitates as I say her name. 'I'm the one that got you dat body you be wearing. I have a proposition for you.'

The blood soaked girl cocks her head to the side and grins at me like I'm something good to eat.

'Oooooooo, do tell, it's been sooooooo long since I've had a pretty little piece of flesh like you.' She licks her lips, blowing me a bloody kiss.

I can't keep the disgust off my face. 'A business proposition.' I amend.

'I work for a man named Essex, you come wit' me nice and quiet like an' he can guarantee you never be trapped in some dumb ass display case again.' I watch her keenly. 'You have your choice of host bodies too.'

Malice smiles brilliantly, 'Yours?'

I tighten my grip on my blades, let the charge build, but I smile anyway, swallowing down the bile and the shame. 'You ain't woman enough to handle me, cherie.'

Malice laughs, it's a horrid sound, twisted and vindictive and should never come from a girl so young, but then it's not Delilah anymore, is it?

I shunt my thoughts away from there. What's done is done. I did what I had to do. I wouldn't be doing this if I had a choice.

'And if I refuse this _proposition _sweetcheeks, what then?'

I hold up the glowing blades. 'I rip you out o' dat body you wearing an' put you somewhere nobody ever find you.'

Malice studies me, the glowing blades in my hands, the destruction all around. She comes to a decision.

'Well, honey bunch, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?'

I nod my head, real tired all of a sudden. 'Lead de way den.'

I motion towards the door to the basement, giving her a mock bow.

Malice bats her eyelashes at me, 'Shouldn't you take the lead, big, strong man that you are?'

'No.'

I can't keep playing these games. I feel sick.

Malice laughs, girlish, and starts skipping up the stairs. I want to go home. Oh, right, I don't have a home anymore. All I have is an evil scientific genius who owns me mind, body and soul.

As I follow Malice out of the basement I look down at Ivor Van Meer, his neck still spouts blood, but the flow is slowing, spreading out around him like an oil spill.

I see my face reflected in that pool. There's no expression; nothing. I don't know this man I see reflected in blood. He is not Remy Lebeau, he can't be.

As me and the creature in Delilah's body make good our escape I keep thinking, what am I doing? What am I letting Sinister turn me into?

There are no answers, only the memory of the deprivation tank and the itch of scar tissue at the back of my head. Maybe they be the only answers that matter, after all?


	12. Chapter 12

Part Twelve: Illusionary freedom; damnation thy name is ego

'What are you gon do wit' the girl?'

'Hmm?'

Sinister looked up from the screen. Green and white lines of energy zig-zagged across looking like the read out from a medical heart monitor.

'The girl,' Sinister spears a cold red look towards Delilah's prone body, 'she is of no use to me; merely human. Her genetic pedigree is hardly remarkable even for a human.'

Delilah Van Meer lay on one of Sinister's metal operating tables, still in one piece. Sinister had removed Malice from the girl as soon as he'd 'broken her in' just like he'd broken me. Sinister had promised Malice a powerful mutant body to live in, in return for her service.

The lab is cold. It's that cold that comes from being around too much metal. I don't want to spend a second more in here than I have to, but I need to know what's going to happen to Delilah.

'Den you gon let her go?'

I'm chewing the inside of my bottom lip. I stop when I draw blood. Stupid, Lebeau, you know better than to show nerves like this.

Sinister flicks cold red eyes at me. 'She knows too much. Scalphunter will dispose of the girl.'

My fingers twitch. Sinister finally turns from the monitor and studies me. He's been doing a lot of that lately. He's waiting for me to make a break for it; watching for me to snap.

'You have something you want to say, Lebeau?'

He's playing with me. I know it. 'You don have to kill her.' I force myself to look him in the eyes.

'She don know anyt'ing. She been asleep de whole time she been here since you got Malice out of her. An' even if she saw you what dose dat matter, she's just a kid.'

Sinister smiles slightly, smugly, 'You wish to save this one's life? Feeling guilty again? I thought I had rid you of such pointless, ineffectual emotional responses.'

I flinch. I don't know what's happening to me. I hate this man – this monster - he's the one that should be guilty for what he did to me. I would never have taken Delilah if he didn't make me. So why does it bother me that he looks _disappointed_ in me?

_I am impressed Lebeau. You acquired Malice much sooner than I had anticipated. I was beginning to doubt that you were worth the time and resources I have put into your recovery. I am pleased to see I was not mistaken in choosing you. _

That's what he said when I returned with Delilah/Malice in tow. He was pleased. His smile made me sick. What he did to get Malice to co-operate made me sick. The fact that his words made me feel good made me sick.

How long has it been since somebody said I was good?

I'm the best damn thief ever to come out of the Guilds, there is nobody better. I never got the praise I deserved from the Guild, from the Clans. All they did was keep secrets from me, use me up, and spit me out.

None of the thieves I grew up with could do what I did up in Vancouver. Sure they could have broke Van Meer's securities but any meat head can break into a place. It takes skill, style, chutzpah, to talk your way into a mark's house and be escorted straight to the vault!

_Nobody in the Guild would ever have done what I did to Delilah, either. You bringing shame on the name Lebeau, on the Guilds, every minute you stay here, Remy, an' you know it. _

'Let me take her someplace else. Leave her someplace people will be able to help her – far from here.'

'And what is to stop you from taking that opportunity to attempt an escape?' Sinister didn't sound angry, just amused.

Not trusting my eyes not to give me away I wander over to some of the tools and specimen cases lining the wall.

'Yeah, right. Escape where? Mos' of de American Guilds are gunning for me now, not to mention Interpol an' de FBI. I got nowhere to run an' nobody to run too.'

The thing with Interpol was still bugging me. The FBI didn't really know who I was; just some phantom thief that kinda, sorta, maybe, existed outside of rumours and hearsay. The fact that Interpol had my name on file – that bothered me. I think it was after that thing in Liverpool, England; or maybe Munich?

'I see you begin to appreciate your situation, Lebeau. Indeed all roads are closed to you, except those that Sinister leaves open.'

I smother a frown and straighten my back. I'm starting to feel tired and sick again. It's been bad lately.

I can't decide if it's because I haven't had a smoke in – lord knows how long – or because I've stopped taking the protein and vitamin supplements Sinister gave me. Don't know what was in those but I don't think it was just vitamins.

'A good t'ief knows when he's beaten, an' when it's time to fight.'

I mutter remembering what Jean-Luc used to say when I'd get into trouble for taking it to some punks that called me 'mutie' or 'freak'.

_Know your enemy, Remy. You can't win ev'ryt'ing by lettin' fly wit dem fists, use your brain; t'ink your way out of t'ings._

I'm trapped and I can't fight my way out. Sinister is way out of my league; got to accept that. So I have to bide my time, watch, learn, figure out how to wriggle out of Sinister's control; got to make it look like I'm beaten, got to keep my brain sharp.

'What was that Lebeau?'

Sinister steps up behind me and I try real hard not to flinch. I think I fail because he smiles.

'You can't win against me, thief, you cannot conceive of my plans. The knowledge I have. You should feel privileged that I have chosen you to play some part in the betterment of mutantkind.'

'Don know what you mean, homme.' I'm pinned between Sinister and the stainless steel cabinets that hold all his macabre bits and pieces. 'Never had much int'rest in betterin' any kind; not like mutants are dat diff'rent from humans.' Side-stepping I get away and move towards the table where Delilah lays.

'Ridiculous.' Sinister scoffs.

'A human cannot do as you do. Cannot conceive of the power you possess. Just as you cannot conceive of my power, or the possibilities of your species; Mutantkind is the future and I intend to shepherd all mutants towards the destiny you were born for.'

Sinister talks like this sometimes. I think he was talking like this in the early days. The ones I don't want to remember; when I was fresh out of the Deprivation Tank and half out of my mind. I didn't like it then and I sure as hell don't like it now. I decide to change the subject.

'I'll take Delilah an' dump her on some church doorstep or somet'ing. What's she gon be able to say? Dat somebody claiming to be de devil made her kill her papa? Any cop dat listen to her gon t'ink she's crazy. She sure won't be able to bring any heat down on you.'

Sinister waves a hand, like he can just wave away my best argument, ignoring what I say like I try and ignore him.

'A costly waste of time and resources when I am close to enacting my plans; you are needed on other tasks. It is simpler by far to kill the girl, some of her organs may be of use in my research.'

Bile rises in my throat and I clench my teeth. My head throbs and everything I look at in this lab takes on a reddish tint. This is way more than just nicotine withdrawal.

'Dat what you are den homme; jus' anot'er butcher? Thought you were a scientist. De _great shepherd of mutantkind._ Guess you just anot'er psycho wit delusions of grandeur, eh?' I make my tone light and reach out to stroke Delilah's dark hair spilling out underneath her head.

Sinister looks – angry; hot damn, I think I've hit a nerve. 'You dare question me; you, a cowering thief?' He turns on me but I stand my ground (for once.)

I won't let him kill this girl. I can't. If I do then I'm no better than Scalphunter. Jean-Luc's words in my head again. Remember the seriousness in his eyes as he tried to explain to the crazy, wild ten year old I was about the way a Thief should behave.

_If you got no choice, if your life or a clansman's life is on de line, den Guild Law says a t'ief can kill; but only when dere be no other choice, Remy. An' never, ever kill because it's easy. You do dat you not only no longer a T'ief, you not'ing more den a coward._

'Sticks an' stones, homme,' I smirk, keeping my balance on the balls of my feet, 'I'm not de one talkin' bout slicing an' dicing chillen for my science fair experiment.'

I manage my best lazy grin, which I'm proud of because my feet are two inches off the ground and Sinister is throttling me by the neck.

Sinister is sneering at me, teeth bared like a rapid dog and he flings me, one handed, across the lab like I'm used Kleenex. I tuck and roll and manage to avoid major internal injuries. I get to my feet laughing.

'What's de matter Essex, don like it when your puppets talk back, dat it?' I stagger to my feet.

Damn but I'm woozy. Head's about ready to explode. Feel sick. Still I'm winning. Sinister, the big, bad evil genius, he cracked first. I double over and spit up blood, still laughing.

'Lebeau.' The word is deadly. I don't care. What the hell can he do to me that he hasn't already done, huh? Kill me; like I care.

'Mebbe you should build yoursel' a Frankenstein monster instead of recruiting, den mebbe you get de help you want, no?'

I look up at him and only then realise I've fallen down. I can't see straight and everything is red and black spots. I don't feel well at all.

'Lebeau?' Sinister sounds wary not angry.

'Oui?' Sweet Mary Mother of Christ what the hell is wrong with me? I didn't hit my head when he threw me, did I?

'Lebeau?' Sinister is right in front of me; his red eyes filling my vision.

'Lebeau!' He's shaking me. I don't like that.

'How long ago did you stop taking the power stabiliser?'

'De what?' I think I'm dying. Glory Halleluiah I'm free.

'The drugs, Lebeau, the supplements,' Sinister sounds, not worried, but peeved. I smile. So I was right. He was controlling me through those '_vitamin and protein supplements.'_

'Din't t'ink I'd fall for dat, did you, homme? T'ink I'm some junkie dat gon do whatever you want for a fix.'

'Imbecile,' Sinister hisses. 'Those drugs are the only reason you still have full motor control. The drugs were stabilising your powers after the surgery I performed.'

'Too bad.'

I laugh. I can't see a thing. I'm blind and going deaf. Hellfire or Choirs of angels here I come.

'Guess you gon have to find another cowering t'ief to do your dirty work.'

Something sharp, cold and liquid runs through my veins. It's like an infusion of ice water and my eyes snap open. I can see again. Hear. Damn it. I'm cured.

Sinister is holding a pneumatic syringe in one hand and looking pissed. I smile.

'Guess you need me, huh, Essex? Guess I'm not jus' some expendable 'cowerin' t'ief' after all, eh? Mebbe you should let me take de girl, seeing as how I asked nicely an all, an' I'm so useful to you.'

Sinister's eyes widen. 'You tricked me? You did all this to win an argument?'

I pick myself up off the floor. 'Dis is what you paying me for right?' I slap a hand to my forehead. 'Oh, dat's right, you ain't payin' me.'

I look at him coldly wiping off my pants. Going cold turkey to prove a point is no way to have fun.

'I'm not askin' you to let me take de girl, Essex, I'm tellin' you dat dat's what I'm gon do.' I meet his eyes. 'I got no choice but to steal for you, Essex, but I don belong to you - an' I never will.'

Sinister surprises me when he starts clapping, not blasting me with energy beams, but a slow applause. He's grinning like he's the one that just got the upper hand in this.

'Excellent, Lebeau; a masterful feat of duplicity, I am impressed again with your capacity for deceit. I can see that I have chosen well in you.'

I'm not smiling now. Walking, stiffly because I'm still not one hundred per cent after that stunt I just pulled, I pick up Delilah from the table.

'Dat's what you t'ink homme, one o' dese days I'm gon be too expensive for even you to afford me; won't be your slave forever.'

Sinister watches me as I carry Delilah out of the lab. 'By all means, Lebeau, keep believing that if it pleases you. But mark my words, thief. Sinister has claimed you as his own and you will be free of me only when I say you are free.'


	13. Chapter 13

Part Thirteen: Of Thieves and Mad Men; Hello Stockholm Syndrome

'Lebeau, are you listening to a word I'm saying?'

I look up from the Takeout noodles, chop sticks poised and ready.

'Absolutement.'

'Then you won't mind relaying back to me the information I've just spent an hour of my precious time imparting to you?'

Sinister is busy in his lab again. The monitor screens are alive with images of different news reports and scenes from the covert surveillance of a red headed pregnant woman in a pilot's bomber jacket. Sometimes a brown haired man with ugly red glasses is with her, sometimes not.

'In full or you want a summary?'

I ferret out a shrimp with the chop sticks and ferry it to my mouth. I've been bouncing from one job to another for the last four months solid; finding time to eat, sleep and be merry is a major undertaking.

Sinister gives me a cold look. I stare back at him. It's been a long while since his looks have scared me.

'Okay, homme,' I put down the carton and lick my fingers, 'De,' I pause, realising I've slipped on the accent again, '_The _way I see it.' I amend, watching Sinister's slight smirk as he notices me correct myself. Even though he's the one that doesn't like the way I speak. 'You a man with enemies and you need me to find you a bunch of bodies to keep those enemies away from you and your lab while you do whatever it is you been fixin' to do for the last eight months.'

'Fixin?'' Sinister looks at me, 'I do not 'fix'.'

I roll my eyes, 'Planning then; scheming.' I wave my hands struggling for the right words, 'Plotting, _engineering_.' I shrug, 'Whatever homme, you know what I mean.'

Sinister nods, 'Engineering; yes, that is an acceptable description. And I am not looking for just any cut-throat, those are easy to come by and I would not waste your skills or my time on such an endeavour. I need you to find me the best mutants and meta-humans trained in warfare in the world.'

I quirk an eyebrow, 'Warfare? How many people we talking about here?'

Sinister doesn't notice my look, 'I require a small cadre of skilled combatants to act as an -elite strike force- against any hostility towards my person or my experiments. No more than ten. Too large a group will be hard to conceal.'

'No kiddin'.'

I chew on this looking distractedly at the monitor screens again. The screens are showing rolling footage of a news report about some bunch of super-weirdos from New York; X-Factor they called. One guy has wings and another is blue and furry. New York a city that seem to have more than its fair share of costumed weirdos, apparently, and it makes me not want to ever go there, that's for sure.

Not that I can complain about costumes, and looking weird. I pull open my trench coat a little and look down at the special body armour jumpsuit Sinister makes me wear on jobs. It took some getting used to, the solid fuchsia breastplate, but after the first barrage of bullets it deflected on that SHIELD heli-carrier I decided I could live with the colour scheme after all.

'So you want a hit squad; bunch of hard core nasties that know how to make a hit and take orders?'

I tick through the rolodex of names and faces in my head. People I've worked with, people I've fought against, people I've slept with, everyone and anyone who fit the bill.

'Indeed. As you have repeatedly maintained you will not kill, and Scalphunter is only one man, I find I must look elsewhere.'

I ignore the dig at the fact that I won't kill for Sinister, though lord knows I've done almost everything else.

Stealing, embezzlement, blackmail, sabotage, espionage; you name it I've done it over the last four and a half months, in just about every major city on the globe. All in the name of Sinister's master plan, the details of which I don't know and don't want to know.

'So this private army, they gon be for defence right? Attack your enemies when dey attack you?'

I don't care that I'm slipping on the 'th''s. I need to know that this isn't a back handed way of getting me to turn killer by finding him other killers.

Sinister lifts his head from the microscope. 'Tell me, Lebeau, how many times have I killed since you have been in my employ?'

'You person'lly, None. Dat's what Scalphunter's for.' I don't look at him, embarrassed that he read the doubt in my voice.

'Indeed and how many times have I sent Scalphunter out to kill a man, or woman, in these last months?'

'Twice.' I mutter.

'Yes, and both times I have made sure you were aware of this action and why it was necessary. I believe that you agreed that killing them was the only viable option to prevent our actions from being detected. Especially as you yourself would be liable to become a target and suffer the consequences if I was to be detected by my enemies too soon.'

'Oui, I s'pose but…'

I hate when he does this; when he's reasonable, makes me feel stupid for questioning him. It's easier to remember that I hate and fear him when he's torturing or threatening me.

'Then why do you question me now? You have made it palpably clear you do not want to know the details of either my research or my agenda, even if I were inclined to divulge them, which I am not, even so you have no reason to doubt my word. Do you Lebeau?'

'Non.' I wish he would stop, his words gouge into my brain and make it hard to think; to hate, to fear. To remember who I thought I was.

'Have you not benefited in both skill and reputation through your work for me? I have opened up opportunities for you to expand upon your skills in all areas of your chosen profession and you have amassed a sizable personal fortune in the process.'

I couldn't deny that one. Sinister had had me breaking military and para-military organisations like SHIELD on a semi-regular basis for months now.

Usually for specific pieces of scientific or genetic research or some kind of hi-tech prototype device and as long as I got what he wanted without creating too much fuss he let me sell off whatever else I could carry out of there, and keep the proceeds for myself. Most clients wouldn't let me do that.

'I have respected your petulant refusal to take human life, despite the inconvenience that causes me without complaint, have I not, Lebeau?'

'Oui.'

And you tortured and terrorized me for four months before I agreed to work for you. Drugged me and experimented on me and still you won't tell me what you did to my brain to make my powers work the way they do.

But none of that seemed to matter now. If I'd agreed to work for him from the get go none of that would have happened; Seattle wouldn't have happened. I brought it on myself. Sinister isn't any worse than some of the scum I've taken work from before. Not really.

'Not arguing any of dat, homme.' I say to Sinister trying to rally.

'But after I get dese people for you, you an me gon have a talk about ending dis arrangement.' I tap my fingers on the carapace of the body armour without thinking.

'Way I see it, wit' dese people I'm gon get for you, you not have much need for me, eh? Time to cough up dat final payment we discussed.'

Like taking out that locator chip in my head and giving me the data on what he did to my brain and powers. I don't ever want to have to come back to him if I need 'fixing' again. I've earned my freedom. We both got something out of the deal and now it's getting time to end it. While I still can.

'We shall see Lebeau. As I have said you are mine until I say otherwise.' Sinister's eyes sparked, 'Or until you are of no further use to me.'


	14. Chapter 14

Part Fourteen: Recruitment Drive; suicidal self-delusions in the city of Al Capone

Chicago is a fun city. It has history. I like to walk streets that have a story to them. This is the city that Prohibition built; the city of Al Capone and the bootleggers.

I'm walking streets now. Slipping into one bar after another, bottle in a brown paper bag shoved into the deep pockets of my trench coat. I'm nicely buzzed but still mostly sober; mostly.

I don't get what's wrong with me. It was a freaking red letter day when I finally convinced Sinister of my loyalty and he let me live outside of his labs. To walk the streets freely – I should be kissing the damn floor with every step. Never thought I'd see the sun again during those long, endless days in that dark cell waiting for Sinister or Scalphunter to come and let me out for one thing or another; losing my mind slowly.

But that's over now. I have my freedom. I've got everything a thief could want. My reputation makes me untouchable, add to that I only have to whisper the name 'Essex' and people back up a step and I'm safer now than I've been since the Guild threw me out.

I'm not stupid, I've done my level best to keep my ears and eyes shut to what doesn't concern me. But there are things that Sinister does that I can't pretend not to see. The empty vials and vats, the strings of fibre-optic cables carefully named. I try not to think about the owners of those names and what became of them.

I don't see much of Scalphunter and I've given up any hopes of getting revenge – on what? I don't even know anymore. It's hard to keep track of things from before I agreed to work for Sinister. Why does it matter who was responsible for something that just feels inevitable now; like ending up with Sinister is some kind of destiny fulfilled.

Jesus. My brain feels like mush; can't think straight. Need to focus. Remember I'm on the clock, got a job to do, Remy; can't do to let that faultless reputation slip, boy.

I'm messed up. My sales pitch fell flat on the first bunch of Mercs I tried to recruit. I can't talk the talk when there all these questions in my mind. Questions will get a young thief on the make killed.

So I picked a city I feel safe in and started walking. Don't sleep. Don't really eat. Hop from one bar to another. Who are Sinister's enemies? Why does he need his own private army? What is he planning and how am I ever going to get away from him?

He's sent me up against the Hand, Hydra and some of the weirder lesser known terrorist groups. I've broken into old USSR compounds and stolen secret genetic experiment data but Sinister doesn't act like he's afraid of any of them. Or that they even know he exists.

Who is that woman with the red hair I see on the monitors? The one he watches all damn day on his screens, charting the weeks until she gives birth. Who is the guy with the visor? Are they his enemies; a pregnant woman and a guy in glasses?

I know if I sat down and put it all together I'd figure out his game. The stuff I've stolen for him. The stuff I've seen. How it all fits together. I could easily learn the names of those people he watches.

I could easily find out what sinister did to Scalphunter. That guy doesn't even seem human anymore. Don't recognise him as the man I used to know and I know Sinister's done something to him. I could warn those people on the monitor screens, even, tell them of Sinister.

I have the skills to do it all. And I know I won't. There is no greater crime a thief can commit beyond betraying their client and I am, and always will be, a thief.

That's why I'm walking by Lake Michigan at 2am because I don't want to know what's going down and the knowledge that I'm close to knowing too much already is driving me crazy. I don't want to know - don't want to think. Don't want to think about what's going to happen to me next.

I know what Sinister was telling me, unless I fall into line and do what he says, exactly what he says, no matter what, I might end up becoming redundant. And I don't think I want to know what kind of severance package Sinister gives his old employees.

Flopping onto a bench at the end of the pier, watching the dark waters lap the air out on the lake I pull out the bottle and the folded piece of paper.

The paper has the names of anyone and everyone I could think of that could be coerced, bribed, or blackmailed into working for Sinister.

_Phillippa Sontag; _picked up Phillippa in a bar when I was passing through this town on business for Sinister a few months back. She a Vietnam Vet, completely nuts, wacko chick that scared me to look at her, but I was drunk and horny and so glad to be free of Sinister's lab I wasn't in the mood to be discerning.

Phillippa's too violent to get steady work as anything more than hired muscle and most people like their goons male anyhow. She should be an easy mark, if I can just get my head on right.

_Michael Baer. _Built like a brick outhouse the guys got the personality to match, had a run in with him in Munich during my runs with Grey Crow. He's the reason Interpol have my name on file; Psychotic meathead, going to mean a flight over to Berlin to bust him out of prison but, still, another easy mark.

That Inuit guy, the one working as a bounty –hunter that time I went toe-to-toe with Frenzy. What was his name? Like the camera company - _Kodiak! - Kodiak Noatak. _Got powers kinda like mine, none of my style though; kind of a blunt instrument, but Sinister never said he was looking for brains. All I need to do is find him, figure out his price and offer it to him, shouldn't be too hard.

Rooting out a cigarette I light it with a finger and tip my head back against the bench. The stiff breeze rising off the lake blows my hair back from my face and drags the smoke away before smoke rings can form. _So what have I got? _

Got the muscle in Phillippa and Michael and the military know-how in Scalphunter, he can keep the psychos in line. Don't know about Malice, depends on whose body she's in. Things didn't work out Sinister's way with that bimbo singer – what was her name? – Dazzle – Dazzler – something like that, it don't matter.

_So that's three; mebbe four if Sinister can find another body for Malice. Think he has plans there anyhow. Five if I can get hold of the Inuit. _

So five low-rent psychos, that the best I can come up with? Sinister wants powers. He wants mutants; mutant killers. They got to have the know-how to kill and the powers to impress Sinister.

Need a big name, a marquee name to impress Sinister, a body I can get for him that no one else can. Remind him I'm too good to dispose of.

_Creed; _No! Not him. Not that animal, never. _But Creed on Sinister's payroll is worth five Phillippa's or Michael's. Creed's a legend. Just his name is enough to get a body to back down. And after that run in me and Henri had with Creed in Paris the New Orleans Guild keep tabs on Creed's movements and I, of course, keep tabs on the Guild. _

I throw the cigarette towards the water and hurl the bottle over the pier rail too; it explodes noisily before it hits the water. Oooops; got to watch those powers.

Sitting forward I drop my head in my hands. I don't have any choice. I've tried to keep my head above water these last few months. Tried to stay true to what I was taught. I can't do that anymore. Not if I want to stay alive. And I have precious little else but my life left to me.

Sinister needed me to steal for him while he was building his resources, getting ready to put his plans in action. Waiting to reveal himself to these 'enemies' he talks about. I can see the writing on the wall.

This private army - this is the last piece of the puzzle. The last thing Sinister needs before he can do whatever it is he's going to do. Then he won't need me. I'll be obsolete and expendable.

_You don't know that, Remy. Sinister's not the kind of man to waste all that time breaking me in just to kill me. Right; I mean if all he wanted was a thief for a short term contract then he could have just bought one. He needs 'me'. He needs me. _

_Gathering these mercs is not a suicide mission; it's just another part of the job. Do it well enough and mebbe I can pay off my debt to Sinister. This could be my ticket to real freedom._

Right, freedom, to a life that's broken and empty anyway. Enough of this, Remy boy, you got to get your head back to business. I pull another cigarette from my pocket. Wish I never threw the Bourbon into the lake. C'est la vie; can't be helped. I have strength and precision in the line up. What else does Sinister want, I wonder?

Scalphunter knows his way around technology but a team that works for Sinister is going to need someone with a speciality in technology – and the disabling there of. Someone other than me, that is.

_Kim Il Sung -Scrambler_. He'd do it for enough money. Vicious little prick's got a way with computers and he wants to get more involved with the practical side of the business.

_That's six; Scrambler, Scalphunter, Michael Baer, Phillippa Sontag. Malice. Kodiak Noatak. Still needs balance; mebbe some energy projectors or some experts in long range weaponry? _

I won't think about Creed. Creed's a one man wrecking crew all on his lonesome. Can't see him as a team player though; no, don't think about him. Never be able to get him to agree to deal anyhow.

_But Creed would make seven and with his skills Sinister might not mind if I come in a little under weight on my quota. Now is not a good time to be disappointing the man. The clock is ticking. I could find Creed. Monster like him don't have a need to ever really hide, mostly people hide from him; he's an easy mark. _

I feel my lips lift in something that I wouldn't call a smile. The wind whistling over the silent pier picks up, but doesn't drown out the harsh, cynical laughter that bubbles up from somewhere close by. I look around but no one else is here, so it must be me that's laughing; the bite of hysteria stinging my throat, blinding me so that only the memories in my head are visible.

_Oooooops. _

I heard that maniac's words in my sleep for months after Paris. _Ooooooops _as he let them both drop. Creed, Sabretooth; it past time Creed was dragged straight to hell. A hell that is cold as steel and pure like the prick of a hypodermic needle. Creed's been the devil's own all his live long life. Only fair – _fittin' _even - that I be the one to introduce the devil to his greatest disciple, no?

_Scalphunter, Malice, Phillippa Sontag, Michael Baer, Kodiak Noatak, Scrambler and Sabretooth. _Vicious, mean, and deadly; what more could an evil scientific genius want out of his own gang of killers? If I can scramble the heavy-weights quickly Sinister might even give me more time to pick up the spare.

Whistling through my teeth I leap up from the bench and tug my trench coat tightly around me, the Windy City living up to it's name. I'm smiling as I walk. The questions fade from my head. For better or worse I've done it now. Created a team that I can already see working together pretty well under Sinister's control.

Committing the crime is never as bad as thinking about it; the genies out of the bottle now. I have to gather the troops now that I've thought of them. It's almost liberating to let go of the questions that won't do me any good anyways. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen and all I can do is look out for myself. The consequences can take care of themselves.

'Still, dere's a few hours 'til dawn.' I mutter still chuckling to myself. Feeling strangely light and free, must be the Bourbon hitting my system or something, I head back towards the city lights.

'Let's see if I can find some pleasant company, gon be who knows how long 'fore I can rest after this.'


	15. Chapter 15

Part Fifteen: Every man his price to ask, and to pay

'Remy.'

'Phillippa, I'm flattered, you remembered me.'

Her response is a harsh snort. She's propping her muscled torso up against the bar, whiskey shots littering the pitted surface. 'What are you doing here pretty boy? Lookin' for a good time?'

'Always, ma cherie, an' you?' I wave the bar man over and order a beer.

I am three weeks legal but rarely get carded – not that I carry ID - the stubble I can't get rid of and the look in my eyes, even disguised by special contact lenses that sting, puts people off asking stupid questions, I've found.

'I heard de Degaro's let you go,' I murmur around the rim of my beer, she looks at me sharply, I smile, ' some people got no appreciation for quality.'

'Bunch o' hypocrites, they wanted the guy whacked. I whacked him.' she bangs her fist into the bar, lightly, or else she'd likely smash the bar into tinder wood.

I smirk, 'Lit'rally _whacked _him, I heard. De cops had to ID de body from finger prints. Not enough left of de face or de teeth.'

'They wanted to make an example of the little prick – well that's what I did.' She slugs down another shot, short dark hair in a crew cut, muscled shoulders rolling.

'What about de dog?'

I ask mildly, trailing a finger through the condensation on the bar. There hadn't been enough left of the victims prize Doberman to fit in a doggy bag. Pun intended.

She looks at me then blinks her surprise, 'How did - ? Never mind,' She rolls her eyes. 'You're a creepy little pischer, y'know that right?'

I smile, 'Dat's not what you said last time I was in town, Phillippa.'

Again Phillippa snorts, which is the limit of her witty repartee. 'Act'ly cherie, I'm here on business; got a proposition for you.'

Phillippa gives me her version of a come hither look. Mine is better, much better. 'You did that last time, pretty boy.'

She reaches out with thick, calloused fingers and strokes her thumb over the stubble on my chin, across my lips.

I capture her hand in mine and kiss the back of it, 'Mais oui, cherie, but dat night I was not at my best, figure I owe you better.'

I smile at her and stroke a hand over her leather clad thigh. 'But dat's just courtesy, cherie, I came to talk business too.'

'What sort o' business?' she leans forward and her whiskey breath is hot and stale.

'Our kind o' business, Phillippa,' I murmur letting her hand drop and trailing my fingers from her shoulder down to her wrist in a feather light patter. 'De kind where you can make all de examples you like, you're talents prop'ly appreciated.'

'Money?' With all the grace of a bull elephant in heat she pulls the black silk shirt out from my pants and rubs her rough, meaty hands against my stomach.

'Fifty thousand up-front sign on bonus, 'nother fifty grand after de first year in service. De employer provides you wit' your orders, de roof over your head, an' de gear.'

'Sounds too good to be true,' Phillippa turns back to her drink. I go back to mine, tucking my shirt back in.

'You have to agree to an exclusive contract, see out de whole year, don ask questions, no rescue if you captured; de usual.' I shrug.

'Wet work?' she looks interested.

I might be able to get out of the sex if she caves this easily. Fifty grand upfront is a lot for a low rent thug like Phillippa.

'Oui.'

'Who's the employer?'

'Man name of Essex.' I finish my beer and order another.

'Never heard of him.' she snorts.

I laugh, can't help it. 'Dat's what makes him so dangerous; none of your mob buddies know him either, he's outta dere league.'

'He know I'm a mutie?' She asks curiously, slightly bitter.

'Dat's what de man wants; he not real fond of regular humans.'

Of all the questions she could have asked after that she went back to the money. 'Fifty thousand upfront?'

'Oui.'

'What about special rates for particular jobs?'

I give her the full force of my smile and lean against the bar shaking my hair from my face. 'Cherie, I'm just de messenger boy, Essex will negotiate individual contracts.'

'There going to be others?'

'Oui.'

'They mutants?'

'Mostly, yeah.'

'How'd he know about me, this Essex guy?'

'I told him you had de skills for de job.'

She looks at me, lust sparks in her drunken eyes and she smiles, playing with the slim length of my black silk tie. 'I guess I musta impressed you last time you was in town, huh?'

I smile leaning close to whisper in her ear, 'Let's jus' say dat you left an _indelible _impression on me cherie.'

I had bruises in places no man wants to ever have bruises after that night. Sex with a woman who can smash the life out of me with one sonic bunch is a weird experience.

'You sure do talk pretty. Talk as pretty as you look.' She slurs trying to reel me in by the tie.

'I try.' I pull free of her and take a step back smoothing out the tie and shirt and adjusting the lapels on the suit jacket.

'You int'rested in de deal, ma cherie?' It's killing the mood I know, but I'm on a dead line.

'Who else has your boss got?'

I nod; a reasonable question. 'Scalphunter, Harpoon, German guy goin' by de name o' Blockbuster.' I shrug, 'Couple of others still to talk to.'

'Scalphunter? Heard he was good. Expensive.'

'He is.' I look down at the scarred bar top.

'What about you? You didn't say your name?'

'Wet works not really my t'ing, cherie.' I flash a smile, 'I'm more a lover den a fighter.'

Phillippa gives me her version of a quizzical look, 'Will I get a new name too?'

I blink, surprised. 'You want one?'

'Arclight. Call me Arclight; always liked that name.'

'Arclight.' I purr the name, smiling and tracing the hard, broad, almost masculine line of her jaw with the pad of my thumb. 'So tell me _Arclight_, you gon take up dis poor boy's proposition den?'

Phillippa laughs, 'Fifty thousand upfront and you to sweeten the deal, hell yeah, I'm in.'

* * *

'Are you sure of this, Lebeau?'

I look up from the blueprints spread out across the table top; cigarette dangling an inch of ash. I stub the end out in the ashtray.

'De intel is solid, Scalphunter.'

Scalphunter looks at me coldly, 'Not what I meant; Creed's a loose cannon.'

'Essex wants him.' I don't look up from marking access points and security hot spots off on the blue prints.

'Only because you told him you could bring Creed in.'

'I can.'

'Creed is dangerous, Lebeau.'

I sneer. 'He's a pussy cat.'

Scalphunter grabs a hank of my hair and pulls my head up, 'You're drunk.'

'Non, not yet, but I'm working on it.' I been doing my damnedest to stay permanently buzzed all day long for the last month or so; it makes it easier to avoid thinking.

'Lebeau.'

I smile, skinning my lips back from my teeth. 'What's de matter Scalphunter, 'fraid you found a scalp you can't claim?'

'You're in danger Remy.'

I burst out laughing, 'Gee, Scalphunter, you t'ink?'

Scalphunter lets me go and steps away moving as far from the table and me as he can in the little concrete box room Sinister graciously let me use to plan this next big 'job'.

Scalphunter shakes his head sadly. 'It's kill or be killed, boy. Sinister's impressed with you. You got no scruples and you're clever, but how long do you think you can last once Sinister unleashes his Marauders?'

'His what?' I look up at him, the unlit cigarette in my hand forgotten.

Scalphunter shrugs, 'That's his name for us; calls us his Marauders.'

I blink several times, 'Catchy.'

Scalphunter snorts and moves towards the table again looking over my notes, the Polaroid's and the blue prints. His actions remind me of Grey Crow when we'd spend hours arguing over a run. Or at least he'd argue and I'd just smirk and make smart-ass comments.

'Remy, Sinister thinks you belong to him, that you'll lead the Marauders eventually. He thinks he's being kind to you by not forcing you to kill like I do but you know even his patience has a limit.'

This is news to me and I slowly breathe out a plume of cigarette smoke, watching Scalphunter. I'm glad I'm drunk, if I wasn't I think I'd be terrified right now.

'An' what do you t'ink?'

'I think you're a twisted little punk but you don't have the stomach for murder. You don't have the hate in you for it.'

'So?' I ask cautiously.

He's right. He is right. After all if I was a killer I'd have killed him months ago for what he did to me. Instead I'm talking to him, listening to him, like he's still my friend.

Scalphunter walks right up to me, right up in my face.

'So, you're a dead man walking. Don't matter how many nasty tricks you got in that twisted brain of yours, if you can't kill you're just cannon fodder.'

He reaches out and snatches the cigarette from my mouth and stubs it out angrily.

'And you are cannon fodder, Remy, because you won't kill. Not even the people you hate.'

Without meaning to I look down at the pictures of Creed littering the table top. 'Dere are worse t'ings to do to a body den kill dem, Scalphunter.'

Scalphunter is looking over the photos as well. 'True. But everyone fears death Remy; everyone. That's why a man who kills has all the power.'

Scalphunter turns on his heels and starts out of the room, watching him I fish out another cigarette and call after him.

'You wrong, Scalphunter.'

Scalphunter turns back to me, a question in his eyes. I light the cigarette with my finger tip.

'De man who kills don have any power if he kill on de say so of another, dey no better den a another damn hound.'

'Hounds are valued, Remy, and protected.'

I smirk and lean against the table cigarette dangling from my lips. 'I'm nobody's pet, Scalphunter, an' I'm nobody's dog to call.'

Scalphunter shakes his head and sneers, 'You're a fool. And you'll die a fool.'

I paste a cocky smile on my face but I think he can see the act for what it is, see the fear in me.

'By your hand?'

Scalphunter just shrugs, 'Better mine then Creed's.'

Then he's gone and I'm alone. Trapped underground in the Devil's dungeon surrounded by killers and monsters. I wonder if I'm dead for real and in hell and just can't tell the difference?


	16. Chapter 16

Part Sixteen: Diable Blanc, Diable Noir, Diable Rouge

So, I've been thinking; which is never a good thing for sure but sometimes a body can't help it.

I mean if this isn't a moment for thought I sure as hell don't know what is.

I'm thinking that it's fucking ironic, the way life kicks you when you down. It seems like the whole world has it in for Remy Lebeau. Maybe here le Diable Blanc is going come up for his final reckoning?

Here I am, in a church of all places, with a monster below me, waiting for the devil to come pick up his own, and still, looking at the broken stained glass windows, the tattered prie dieu and the snuffed out, fallen candles in the embrasure below me, I still keep hoping for a miracle.

I'm all hidden above the candle embrasure in the old wall of this old church here in one of the less delightful neighbourhoods of good old Seattle; have I mentioned how much I hate this town? Yeah, thought I had but I hate it even more now.

Creed is right below me. Prowling around in the shadows like a mangy alley cat, keep expecting him to cock a leg any minute and piss all over the pews.

He's got up like some high dollar pimp, all fur coat and silk lined vest, huge bulk practically bursting outta the seams; makes me sick.

I know he's got my scent. He knows I'm here, he knows I know he knows, but he's playing head games. Waiting for me to come down offa my perch so he can gut me, but it's been a while and much as I hate him, he don't scare me no more. I've met the devil, M'sieur and you ain't him.

Creed breaks first, sniffing like a blood hound, 'Yer comin' down Lebeau or am I gonna hav' to come up an' get yer?'

He even talks like an animal, words slurred and growled around the Cuban cigar clamped between his teeth. He turns around and looks right up at me, grinning like the fucking Cheshire cat out of Alice in Wonderland.

I just look at him, don't talk, don't give him the satisfaction. No reason I even have to be here for this, except I want to see it when Creed meets the one person who he can't rip to shreds with those claws of his.

I want to be close enough to see his face, see the fear in his eyes when the great Sabretooth, the Diable Rouge, with the blood of hundreds on his hands, meets his maker. I want to hear his screams as Essex breaks him.

Creed's looking twitchy, he's not one for the silent treatment and he can probably smell the lack of fear in me. The anticipation that's making my blood boil.

'Whatchu grinning at Cajun?'

Creed spits out the stub of his cigar and makes a show of drawing another one from the silver case in an inside breast pocket of his fur coat. He makes a big performance of letting me see the dirty yellow claws on his hand.

Scalphunter, Phillippa....whoops, I mean _Arclight_ an' the rest of the mercs I called in for Sinister pulled off a pretty good prison break springing Creed from the SHIELD installation in the Czech Republic.

The team, no way am I going to call 'em _Marauders, _did what I thought they'd do. They did what they were good at. They killed and they maimed and they left a burning trail of destruction once they gone.

Essex was real pleased. The homme actually smiled and nobody wants to see that too many times, but while the man's happy I'm safe and in the clear, did my job and did it well.

Arclight, Blockbuster (trust a thick as a stump East German to come up with a name like that....bravo Michael, bravo) and Kodiak made up the muscle and took out the SHIELD troops and Kim Il Sung (Scrambler, which I guess with his powers and hacker skills at least makes sense) and Scalphunter took care of the security side of things.

They killed fifty-seven people (God rest their souls in peace) and busted Creed outta his prison, 'course Creed double crossed 'em almost as soon as he was outta his cell which was why I was waiting for him.

It was Sinister's idea to have me waiting for Creed in case the bête noir wasn't feeling all that social and decided to eviscerate one of his rescuers (Phillippa needed forty stitches to her back from Creed's attack).

So, when Creed made a break for it I followed him, tracking him as he high-tailed it back to the good old U.S of A. I'm a thief par excellence, it's what I do and it's what I am. Even the great Sabretooth couldn't catch a sniff of me tailing him if I don't want him too.

Left Creed to it when he touched down in JFK airport and went to make the acquaintance of his _special friend_ Birdie; couple of drinks and some dancing and the cute little telepath was primed and ready to get creed to Seattle where Sinister and the team would be waiting for him.

Creed snarls at me, 'Cat got yer tongue, punk? I'm talking t'yer Cajun.'

Creed hunkers down all of a sudden, just like a hunting cat preparing to pounce, and I'm in motion before he's pushed himself up offa the stone tile of the church floor.

Tuck and roll and sail clean over his head as he leaps up on the embrasure I was perched on, and it's like we've changed places deliberately an' it's me looking up at him, lighting a cigarette.

'Got a proposition for y' m'sieur 'Tooth.'

Creed snarls, lips curled back from his teeth, 'Snot nosed fucking pup, touching my stuff; Birdie's mine boy.'

I smile and blow a perfect smoke ring, 'Dat's not how she tells it mon frère, but dat ain't what I asked you 'ere for.'

Creed leaps at me, but I remember the way the batard moves, saw it coming and I'm back flipping over the pews up towards the altar when his claws slash across the ground.

I land neatly on the sacred altar with a brace of cards in my hands, changed and ready to be loosed, though Tante Mattie bought me up good enough that I don't want to wreck a church, even a derelict one, if I don't have too.

'De man dat set you free, Creed, he want t'offer you a deal.' I tell him as he stalks up the aisle after me, prowling passed the broken pews.

'What man?' Creed stops and snarls at me; I can see the thoughts moving sluggishly behind his nasty, beady eyes.

I laugh and fan the cards, 'You t'ink dat dose bodies dat let you loose jus' did dat outta the kindness o' deir hearts, Creed? Non, I tell 'em where to find you an' de man Essex tell 'em to let you loose. He wants t'offer you a job.'

'Essex?' Creed frowns, 'I heard the name. He's supposed to be a myth.'

I hide my surprise. Creed had heard of Essex? How? Nobody knew about Essex, or Sinister, or Milbury, or however le Diable Noir be calling himself, that was the whole point.

'No myth M'sieur, he be very real, an' he want t'make you a deal you not gonna refuse.'

'So he sends a punk kid like you?' Creed laughs, 'A fast mouthed, runty kid to screw my Birdie an' get her to give me a message because yer ain't man enough to tell me face to face.'

Creed makes a point of laughing loud and long, hoping to distract me, make me mad so I'll get careless. Not gon' happen, Creed, not dis time.

Creed leaps at me, claws out stretched. I duck and lash out with my right leg, then roll underneath him off the altar as he sails straight over it. I fling my cards after him, blowing up the vestibule and a statue of the Virgin Mary. Tante Mattie would have my hide for that.

'Sticks an' stones, Sabretooth; you ever t'ink mebbe your Birdie went wit' me cause she wanted a real man for a change, hein? Not some no brain, mangy ol' man dat don know how to satisfy a femme as fine as she is?'

Creed takes the bait and sees red, just like I knew he would. He throws himself at me and I roll underneath him at the last moment. Creed crashes into the first row of pews, which I been charging, and the wooden pews go up in splinters.

I run across the tops of the rows of pews opposite as Creed drags his ugly bulk up offa the floor, huge splinters of wood the length of my forearm sticking every which way outta his body and he just shakes 'em off like a dog.

'So homme, we gon keep playing tag or you gon listen t' what I got t'say?'

I perch on the back of the last line of pews, fanning the hand of throwing knifes I just pulled out of my pocket for affect. I was playing before, but I'm not playing now. If Sabretooth bolts, or more likely, manages to get a shot at me, Essex is not going to be pleased and I need him pleased.

Essex pleased means Remy Lebeau gets to live to see another day, and right now, that's all this gambler is playing for.

Must have lost track of things for a second, because Creed is on me in a heartbeat; one second he's shaking wood chunks offa him like a great big dog, next he's airborne and coming down like a ton of bricks right on top of me.

I manage to kick him offa me with both feet to his solar plexus before he can sheathe his claws in my stomach and tear my intestines right out of me, but he catches me across the back as I roll out from underneath him and get to my feet, his claws rake through my flesh like lines of fire; I can almost feel the Tetanus.

'Mon dieu!' I fling my knives, most miss as Sabretooth has caught the smell of blood now, my blood, and is moving like greased lightening, but one blade hits him dead in the left eye and it don't even seem to faze him as he stalks towards me.

I watch him grin as he pulls the blade out, almost taking his eyeball with it. A rush of blood and viscous, transparent fluid leaks down his cheek from his popped left eyeball and he don't even twitch.

'Nice moves, Lebeau, see you've grown a pair since we fought last. I'm gonna enjoy ripping you t'pieces.'

He blinks his left eye and already he's starting to heal. Mon dieu but I wish I could heal like that.

I throw more cards, blowing up some of the pews to make Creed back off. I have a full brace of throwing knives in each hand. I'll bring the roof down on the both of us if I have too.

'I'm not afraid of you, homme. You owe Essex y'freedom, Creed, an' de devil always collects his due.'

It's all I have left to believe in, here in the house of a god who never cared anyhow and who's long since vacated the premises. No god, no angels of mercy, no blessed lady, has ever had Remy Lebeau's back, no matter what prayers I sent up.

The devil was the one who saved me. The devil was the one who claimed me and if that's all I got then I'm going to use it.

'What yer flappin' yer damn lips about Lebeau?' Creed thinks he has me, he grins coming closer, licking my blood from his fingers.

'I'm the only devil you're ever goin' to meet, Cajun, an' I'm going to take my time before I send yer worthless carcass to hell.'

'I don fear hell, Creed, I been in it for months.' I laugh, because it's funny. Maybe Creed can kill me, but so what? The fires of eternal damnation are nothing to what I've been through.

Creed snarls, he's had enough of the true confession session it seems, and he leaps at me again. I get ready to slam six charged throwing knives, three between the knuckles of each hand, into his chest.

Instead a beam of energy, red as blood but cold as ice, strikes Creed in the chest and he goes flying into the busted statue of Our Lady, which shatters all over the floor of the church.

Sinister steps up beside me as I start brushing off the dust and concrete smut from my jacket and pants.

'You took y'time homme.' I mutter.

Sinister, all kitted out in his skin tight metallic blue bodysuit with the high collar and stripped tassel cloak, barely even looks at me.

'On the contrary, Lebeau; I have been here the entire time. I simply wished to see how you performed against Sabretooth.'

Creed launches himself to his feet, kicking free of the fallen debris, he comes at us both and I let Sinister deal with him. Creed gets blasted again, skin cracking and popping and blistering under Sinister's power.

Creed can't speak or do anything except roast under that cold fire, but he still tries to crawl across the stone floor of the church towards us, murder in his two healed eyes.

'Victor Creed. My name is Sinister. Your reputation precedes you and I find I have need of your particular skills. You will serve me as a Marauder and sate your bloodlust on those I tell you, or you shall become fodder for my research.'

Sinister walks over to Creed, lips pulling back in that coldly feral grin of his, all razor teeth like a piranha. I don't want to watch this, but then, isn't this exactly what I said I wanted; to see Creed face a monster worse than him?

I see the peaceful face of the Virgin Mary, her plaster head fallen from her body, part of a gang graffiti tag scribbled across her cheek. Smooth and pale white face, as bloodless as Sinister, but Our Lady's face is kind.

I think of Tante Mattie, who used to take me to church, take me to hear the Mass and take communion. She always told me God had a plan for me. That God had work for me to do.

Was this His plan? To send the devil eyed foundling to the devil himself? Was this the work He wanted me to do? To find killers for a monster who didn't want to get his own hands dirty? Or maybe there was no God and no salvation and all a thief could do was steal himself a tomorrow out of the betrayals of the night?

I turn away as Creed rears up, tries to slash at Sinister and gets blasted back down again; the smell of roasting flesh and burned hair making me want to retch. I leave this house of God where the devil collects his dues and walk out into the city, out into the rain.

Essex wants me to find a few more killers for him. He said if I could find them for him in a week, he'd take the locator chip outta my head and give me the data on what he scraped out of my brain.

I want that stuff back; maybe I can't do brain surgery on myself but if I ever need my powers fixing again I want that stuff so I can find some other doctor. No way I'm depending on Essex. Not going to let him experiment on my brain samples either.

I keep telling myself that it's almost over; the sound of my feet hitting the wet sidewalk the only noise around, though I think if I really listened I could still hear Creed screaming.

It will all be over soon; whatever Essex has been planning all these months is going to happen real soon. If I play my cards right, do what he tells me, don't ask any questions, maybe soon I'll be free of him.

It will all be over soon, and just thinking that terrifies me more than any of the stuff I've been through. Because I know, before it's over, a lot of people are going to die.

And one of them might be me.


	17. Chapter 17

Part Seventeen: Literary allusions; enter the Morlocks

'Morlocks, what de hell kinda name is dat?'

So I'm hung-over and nicotine deprived and Essex is in a rare mood talking about some bunch of mutie outcasts hiding in abandoned subway tunnels under New York City and stalking about like a cat on a hot tin roof in his 'control room'; call me paranoid but I just have the feeling today is going to be a real doozy.

Essex glances at me with a look in his cold red eyes like I'm some kind of bug he don't even care enough about to dissect, which I know isn't true so I'm not fazed by it.

'It is a poor literary allusion to the works of H.G Wells; really Lebeau your conversation and comprehension skills would be vastly improved if you chose to pick up a book once in a while.'

Lounging with my feet up on his steel table, that looks more like an operating table than I'm strictly comfortable about, I give the man my best dumb-ass cocky grin.

'You lost me wit' de _'literary allusion'_ homme.'

Essex don't answer though I think that Phillippa, whoops, I mean _Arclight, _tries to hide a snicker behind her hand. Scalphunter just rolls his eyes at me; he's pretty much washed his hands of anything to do with me anyhow, reckons I'm a dead man walking. The truth is I can't say that I blame the homme either, pretty sure I am too.

Essex is still yammering on and on about these 'Morlocks'. It all boils down to the fact he don't know how they ended up in the tunnels and he don't like them living it up down there so close to - well – something or someone in Westchester County New York. Essex gets real vague about that though I get the feeling Creed knows about it, which is odd but I'm not going to ask.

It's not like I want to know; I'm just serving out my time and looking for a quick exit – though not in _that _way – sapriste, I'm starting to scare myself with all this doom and gloom. If Essex wanted me dead he sure as hell could have killed me a hundred thousand different ways by now; right?

'These self-proclaimed Morlocks are an imposition on the veracity and integrity of my work. Though the Morlock gene pool is self contained at the moment I am reluctant to allow them free reign to breed as they will.'

I can't help it, when Essex starts talking like that I get a shiver down my spine. It's not something I can explain, its just that the whole idea that Essex gets some kind of say in how a bunch of bodies live their lives and who 'breeds' and who don't seems wrong to me. Essex sure as hell is no god, but I guess that the homme don't see it that way – and I sure as hell not going to burst his bubble.

'The mutations exhibited by some of the breed are quite interesting, though I sincerely doubt any possess a genome of great worth,' Essex goes on and on. It don't seem to me that many of my fellow 'Marauders' are listening.

Mon dieu, what I wouldn't do for a smoke right now.

Slumping back in my chair I look up at the steel tiled ceiling and try not to think about how good a smoke would taste right now; damn but my fingers are itching to hold one.

Around me the rest of our motley crew are zoning out in their different ways.

Arclight is trying to catch Scalphunters eye (heh, I could tell de femme she wasting her time, the homme don't swing her way, but it tres amuser to watch) and Scalphunter is staring at me (which I'm ignoring). Creed is watching all of us like he'd like to bathe in a shower of our blood and Scrambler is playing with the laces of his sneakers. Blockbuster's just sitting there and I doubt the homme's had a single thought in his head the whole time we been in here.

The rest of our little gang (and I have to say that I excelled myself with this group – we got a femme who can literally make you sick to look at her, a whirling dervish with the attention span to match, and a homme made outta glass or something) are not allowed to join this pow-wow; lucky them.

'I am forced to conclude that the emergence of such a superficially diverse but fundamentally similar collection of aberrant mutations within one geographic area, even accounting for migration, cannot be coincidental; thus I would further study in-depth the genetic make up of these individual specimens.'

Finally Scalphunter catches my eye and jerks his head towards Essex who's still fucking _talking_. I understand what Scalpy (my new nick-name for the man who I won't ever call Grey Crow again – he hates it, so I be sure to use it often) wants but I don't see why I have to be the one to do it, except that Essex don't like being interrupted by anyone else.

'So what you want wit' dese Morlocks homme, an' what you want us to do about it?'

I speak up while Essex is in mid-rant and the 'man' turns on me, red eyes narrowed. There's a silence while the rest of us minions wonder if ol' Remy Lebeau about to be incinerated, then Essex smiles coldly.

'You are impatient today Lebeau, or perhaps you have begun to understand the nature of your duties?'

I answer with a quirked eyebrow and lean back in my chair, fanning out some playing cards because I need something to keep my hands busy.

'Don' know what you mean, homme, jus' seem to me dat you got to have some reason to call us pawns in other den listenin' to how dese 'Morlocks' be messing up your perfect world.'

That's a lie of course; I get the subtext loud and clear.

Scalphunter was right; Essex has it in his head that I'm the leader of his Marauders, just cause I dragged them all together. I could have, _and have_, told the man that just because he sliced up my brain, did lord knows what to my powers, and tortured me into working for him don't mean I'm looking for a permanent position as his lap-dog.

So far Essex don't seem to have got the message though.

Essex's lips twitch but thankfully he don't 'favour' us with one of his needle-point smiles. 'You are correct, Lebeau, gauche and lacking in eloquence, but correct in your surmise. I have a mission for you all, but primarily for _you_, Lebeau.'

I sit up a little in the chair (well, it was uncomfortable, the homme don't have much care for upholstery) and put away my cards, 'Quoi?'

I get a little shiver down my spine, part anticipation and part fear. I'm a thief to my bones and it's been too damn long since I've had a good pinch to keep my mind off of, well, _thinking _too damn much, but that don't mean I'm stupid enough not to be worried anytime Essex has a 'job' for me.

Lord knows there's enough blood on my hands already.

Essex just nods his head, red eyes boring into my soul (not that I got much of one anymore). I stare back, faint, dumb-ass smile on my lips like I haven't got a care in the world.

I know the game the homme is playing; he wants me to guess what he wants me to do. It's all head games, his way of proving that I'm his, just because I can - how does he put it? -ah, oui, _intuit his requirements and fulfil those expectations without the need for unnecessary vocalisation_.

Seconds tick down and I can almost hear them, even though there is no clock in the room; Essex waiting for me to break, and me refusing to do it. The rest of the Marauders just watch, we all been through this game too many times already.

Scalphunter kicks me in the shin, making me jump. He glares at me, telling me without words to stop jerking on Essex's chain and give the man what he wants.

I want to hold out, these little victories are all I have left, but the truth is there's nothing to win by pissing off Essex and too damn much to lose.

'You want me to go take a visit to dese Morlocks, eh, a little spot of infiltration?'

I say finally, reluctant but damned if I'll show it. Casually I fan out my cards again, shuffling the deck, breaking the deck, barely even aware of what I'm doing.

Ace of Spades; why is it that every time I cut the deck that's the card that faces me? Someone up there has a really sick sense of humour, I guess.

'Indeed, Lebeau.' Essex nods, pleased that I'm so broken in he don't have to hurt me no more to get the answer he wants. I meet his eyes blandly.

We both know I'm trapped and we both know I'm going do whatever I have to do to survive. The only difference is I'm still fool enough to think I can pull it off.

'Why me?' I ask, though I know the answer. I'm the puppet and Essex is the puppet master who likes jerking my strings and making me dance to his tune. Still, it's not like Essex don't have dozens of ulterior motives so it don't hurt to ask.

'I'm not de only homme who can do an infiltration, an' it's not like I'm de freakiest looking mutie on de payroll either.'

'It is not the physical manifestation of your mutation that makes you ideal for this assignment, and I concede that you may struggle to present yourself as one who cannot reside among the humans. However unlike your compatriots you do possess other attributes that make you better suited to a subtle incursion into the Morlock ranks.'

I take a moment to figure that out, 'You mean on account of de fact of my charismatic personality and dat I'm de only one in dis room who isn't a raging psychopath?'

Scalphunter snorts derisively beside me and I ignore him. I think it's a fair assessment considering the company I'm in. Essex seems to agree anyhow.

'Crude but more or less accurate; though you exhibit a number of behaviours corresponding with mild sociopathic tendencies, you are not as given to aggression as your compeers and trained in the sort of surveillance and infiltration I require for the moment.'

I'd have argued with the sociopath crack if I really understood it, but as I don't know what 'behaviours' he be getting at I decide not to say anything – hell, he was agreeing with me, why rock the boat, eh?

'So you want me to make nice wit' de Morlocks, then what?'

I fan the cards again, relaxing fractionally. This kind of job I can do. It might not be a pinch, exactly, but charming some butt-ugly muties in some tunnels was a walk in the park compared to some of the shit Essex has had me do.

Least that's what I tell myself.

'Discover their numbers; their combative capacity and the layout of their dwelling spaces. I want you to discover as much about the tunnels they use and the organisation of their forces as you can, without arousing the suspicion of the Morlock leader, a mutant by the name of Callisto and one of the few in that number worthy of further study.'

I put the cards away again; suddenly I'm not so relaxed, 'De organisation of dere forces; what you t'ink dese people are? Why you need to know dat?'

I don't know why I bother to ask, except that the words just slip from my cold lips. Scalphunter shakes his head at my stupidity and Creed laughs, but I ignore them both and look at Essex.

It's funny how alike his red eyes and mine suddenly seem.

'I would think that was obvious, Lebeau. What purpose would anyone have in ascertaining the combat capacities of a potentially hostile group of mutants?'

I can feel my blood going cold, oh mais oui, I can guess why he'd want that kind of information I just don't want to admit it.

'I don't know what purpose anyone would have wit' dat kinda info, homme, an' I not askin' about _anyone_ I'm asking _you_, Essex.'

No one talks to Essex like that, not even Creed whose only just been let out of the deprivation tank hisself – and I take some pride in the fact that he broke faster than I did, but then again, it's not like killing for hire is against Sabretooth's moral code.

Still I don't take back what I said; I won't. I'm a puppet sure, but I'm a smart-assed one.

'Is that so?' Essex sounds amused, as much as I can tell when every word he says sounds like rock gouging steel. 'Perhaps I don't feel like divulging that information?'

A pin could have dropped in the room and we'd all have heard it; it seem to me like everyone was waiting, holding their breath, for Essex to obliterate me. I feel myself smile; if the devil wants me dead he can kill me, but Remy Lebeau still got some scraps of pride left.

'Den we gon have a problem, homme.' I murmur watching the man real close; watching him watch me. 'I'm not gon set dese folks up for an ambush less I know why. What you want wit' dem, Essex, if dey not de perfect specimens why you care what a bunch of mutie outcasts do?'

Essex smiles, slow and cruel like moonlight on razorblades.

'An ambush? I'm impressed Lebeau, you seem to have grasped the intrinsic purpose of my mission very quickly and your line of questioning suggests to me that you also suspect my true motivation, though that ridiculous illusion of morality you cling to prevents you from speaking plainly, I see.'

'Pretty words don work for me homme, answer de question or you gon have to find another body wit' de _'attributes'_ you need for dis spying mission.'

Panic surges through me from my head to my toes. Mon dieu, what have I done? What the hell have you done Remy Lebeau; you want the man to kill you? But the words are out and hanging on the air and the only thing I can do is keep my cool and wait it out.

I just called Essex's bluff, admitted that I don't think he really intends to kill me, now I have to wait and see how the homme reacts. I'm really hoping he don't blast me into little, bite sized Cajun pieces. That would be a shame; though it could only improve the décor.

Essex is still smiling; the devil in his smile. Somehow, again, I feel like the monster has tricked me.

It's like there is nothing I can do that Essex don't first predict or expect of me. If I go along with his orders he gets what he wants, if I argue he acts like he wants me too. It's like I really am his – and there's already nothing I can do about it.

'I won' kill for you, Essex.' I try to bite back the words but it's already too late, too damn late, just like it always has been.

'I have not asked you to.'

Essex replies and I understand all over again why people call him Sinister; it's there in the cool, slithering cruelty of his soft, grinding voice. Don't ask me how a voice can sound like tearing steel and still be soft, Essex, he just pulls it off.

I keep my body nice and relaxed, pulse steady, breathing easy, relying on years of training even as my brain is going into melt down and screaming panic is trying to force its way out of my throat. I can feel myself caught in Essex's trap – like I been for months – and there's not a damn, fool thing I can do about it.

'Den you sayin' dat you don intend to hurt dese Morlock people?'

Essex cocks his head to the side, sickly white face mask-like and still but I can see something amused and superior in his cold red eyes.

'I have made my position clear. I wish to study these mutants. To do that I will need to acquire some specimens to bring to my labs. For this reason I would have you lay the groundwork so that you may lead an extraction team into the tunnels to bring to me these specimens.'

I can't help it, I flinch, for a moment the gaping chasm in my head opens; the dark pit of screaming terror that's been inside me ever since the deprivation tank and it opens real wide. I remember the labs. I remember all the things that Essex did to me in vague snatches and half remembered pain.

He wants me to hand over others to him; dumb, ugly muties who probably never did anything to harm anyone, and Essex wants me to hand them over to him to be tortured and poked and prodded worse than animals?

I stare at Essex and he looks back at me like he knows what I'm thinking, which he probably does, the homme knows more about my brain than I do.

As we stare at each other, neither saying a word, I wonder if I can do what he's deliberately not asking me to do. Trapped by Essex's cold, burning, red eyes I realise that we both know the answer.

Yes. The answer is yes.

Yes I can do it; I can trick other people, mutants like myself, right into the arms of the devil himself, knowing what he'll do to them. I can do it because I know what it's like and because I'll do anything, to anyone, to make sure Essex never has a reason to take _me _back to his labs.

It's not a pretty realisation – but then I've never been real fond of the truth anyhow.

No one has ever saved Remy Lebeau any pain in this life; not my Pere, not my Frere, not any of the Guild, and not Grey Crow, the friend that betrayed me. No one saved me from Essex or Sinister, or whatever he call himself, so I have to do it myself.

Even if saving myself means condemning other people to the hell I be living?

'You jus' want to study 'em? See how dey tick, an' what dey can do for you?'

I ask and we both know that I've surrendered. Everyone in the room knows I've surrendered, just like we all knew I would. Creed laughs again and the sound gouges into my soul, ripping open old wounds in what used to be my conscience.

Essex's red eyes glow, he looks smug and amused, knowing that he owns me and knowing that I know it too.

'All I require from you Lebeau is a means to open the door, metaphorically speaking. The rest is not your concern, nor your responsibility.'

The words slip down my spine like acid rain. I laugh hollow like and snap the fan of cards back together shoving them into my trench coat pocket. All save the ace of spades, which I keep poised between my fingers.

What a joke; there's never been a thing that happened in my life that someone hasn't twisted so as to make it my fault and my responsibility somewhere down the line, even when I'm the one that bleeds.

'D'accord.'

I rise to my feet, feeling shaky though I'll be doubly damned before I show it, and make for the door, ready to catch the next plane out to the Big Apple. I'm walking out the secret compound (ah, oui, the puppet gets to play at being free) before I realise that Essex has done it again.

He never did promise not to hurt those people.

Essex didn't answer my question back in that room, he evaded, and I never really expected him to do anything else. He didn't give me the assurances I was looking for, the one where he tells me he don't mean to kill or hurt those Morlocks.

Lying is probably beneath the dignity of the _great scientist, _so he gets me to do it for him.

If he don't contradict me I can convince myself that what he does to those stupid ass muties in those tunnels has nothing to do with me.

He don't tell me he won't kill those Morlocks he captures (I capture) and I don't ask him to tell me. I don't ask because it's easier to lie to myself if Essex don't be telling me the truth.

Tres magnifique; the puppet and the puppet master working together, n'est pas?

It don't matter anyway because as much as I hate it, I know the truth; it doesn't matter what Essex says. If I do this thing, if I hand over even one mutant to Essex, what happens after is my fault – because I'm the key he'll use to open the door.

And the really sick part, the thing that twists in my gut like chronic heartburn, is the truth. The truth is that no matter what happens to any of those Morlocks, people I don't even know and have no quarrel with, it won't change my mind.

If it's a choice between them or me; I'm going to pick me.

I been trapped in hell too damn long and finally there's light at the end of the tunnel, (no pun intended) that's why, right this moment, right now, right here, Remy Lebeau would walk over a mountain of broken corpses to escape the devil.

Here's hoping I won't have to.


	18. Chapter 18

**Part Eighteen: Massacre part one: Phone calls from the damned; did the Devil call heaven before the fall? **

_A/N: I am playing with non-linear sections in this chapter; jumping from time periods - and a warning this chapter is violent._

* * *

_Tuesday; late evening – on the precipice, before the fall_

(Ring)

The line is bad, any minute the connection could break. There's an irony there that I don't want to appreciate right now.

(Ring)

Seven rings, he's not going to answer; it was stupid to call at all.

(Ring)

It's raining again; not Seattle this time but somewhere in Brooklyn. It's funny how everywhere looks the same under a thick sheet of rain. Like heaven is crying and the tears freeze me to the soul I lost already.

(Ring……….'Hello?')

I almost inhale the damp cigarette butt dangling from my bottom lip when I hear that voice. Three years and it hits me harder then Blockbuster ever could. _Papa._

(Hello, who is this? I can hear you breathing; answer me.)

It's been so long since I'd heard Cajun French. For a moment I just drink it in and imagine that the voice is not acerbic and sharp, ready to hang up, but kind, amused, like I half remember it being once upon a time.

'Cry havoc, Jean-Luc, the dogs of war are loosed. You need to know.'

There's a long pause on the other end of the bad connection; I can imagine Papa's face, still and calm, eyes blazing, as he recognises the New Orleans Guild code for situation critical.

(Who is this? Thief, report your name and rank.)

I almost laugh; it's funny, no? How soon my own father forgets the sound of my voice – forgets my entire existence probably.

'No, rank, no name; you stripped that from me,' I continue in the flat, hard, nasal tones of a native New Yorker, 'Thursday, something is going down in Manhatten, the condemned sub-way tunnels. It could be real bad for the Guild and for Clan Lebeau. I thought you should know.'

(……..'I know your voice, don't I? Tell me who you are and what you mean.')

I press my head against the glass wall of the phonebooth, oui, I could have used a cell phone and blocked the trace, but I wanted somewhere to shelter from the rain anyhow.

'You don't know me, Jean-Luc Lebeau.'

_I'm not your son no more._

I draw in a breath because it's either that or start screaming like a crazy-person. I want to yell at him, I want to blame him for everything that happened since I turn eighteen, since my wedding day, but I can't.

I could never blame my Pere. It was me that screwed up; guess I was always destined to have blood on my hands. Considering the way things worked out Papa was right to cut me loose.

Don't mean it hurts any less though.

'I'm sorry Jean-Luc; there were just so many choices that led only one way. I tried, I failed an' people gon die.'

The accent slips and I'm already slamming the receiver down into the cradle of the phone, but I still hear Jean-Luc's quick breath, tinny and distant through the phone, I hear his last words before the line disconnects.

(Remy……son, is that you?)

I walk through the rain, back towards the lights of Manhatten, that don't seem half so pretty to me when I know what I got to do.

Still, I made the call, the only one I could, to the only man who ever reached out and helped me.

I wonder; did the Devil call home to God before he took his fall to hell? Did the Devil burn in the fiery pits and keep looking up to heaven hoping that someone up there would save him from hisself……or is it only me that's just that stupid?

* * *

_One month earlier….the beginning_

New York City, the Big Apple, yadda, yadda; been through once or twice on business and pleasure, don't mind the city though it don't hold a candle to the Big Easy. Currently I'm in Manhatten, but I don't think the tourists come by these parts too often, least not on any guided tours.

I don't like tunnels; they dark and dank and they sure don't smell so good when they supposedly been sealed up for years and are filled to bursting with some of the weirdest looking bodies I ever seen.

Mutants; all of them mutants.

I never seen so many mutants all in the one place; it's weird but I sort of see why those Friends of Humanity jerks get so bent out of shape, non? There is something just plain creepy about these freaks all huddled together staring and whispering.

Oui, I know, Remy Lebeau is a mutant but that don't mean anything. I never _felt _like a mutie. Never acted like a mutie, never had any desire to find other muties and - I don't know - form a support group or something.

I mean it's not like we all have the same mutation, is it? I have no more in common with a guy that looks like something that just oozed out of a broken sewer pipe than I do an ordinary human with a nine to five job and two-point whatever kids.

Just 'cause I was born a freak don't mean I'm going to get on real well with other freaks, n'est pas?

So, when I found out these 'Morlocks' were all freaky mutants who believe in banding together in some kind of fraternity of freakiness that posed a problem. How am I going to relate to that and get in with them?

Why would a gorgeous guy like yours truly choose to live in condemned subway tunnels and old flood drains with a bunch of bodies that make some of my own nightmares look tame in comparison, eh?

A conundrum, non? Not for Remy Lebeau, the greatest thief that ever was banished from the Guilds.

I might not be able to play the persecuted mutie card (sure, I had a lifetime of being called a demon and worse by my peers in the Guild, but then they used to call me an arrogant smartass as well and that didn't have anything to do with my red eyes and tendency to blow stuff up at the worse possible time) but I could play the _human_ card.

Why would someone want to escape the lights of the big city for the stench of the tunnels – simple – they in trouble and they need somewhere to hide; what better place than a tunnel filled with freaky mutants?

So, voila, brilliant entrance strategy devised, all Remy Lebeau had to do was rough myself up a bit (Mon dieu – I beginning to think I've developed some kind of self-abuse thing, what with all the times I play this card) and start running into the tunnels like the bats of hell are on my tail.

Of course Callisto of the Morlocks none too happy to see me when she and that huge slab of muscle of a body guard of hers found me during my tres, tres impressive blind dash through the tunnels, but then I never figured she would be.

For some reason Callisto not completely buying my story; who'd have thought the eye-patch fille be the suspicious sort?

Things got a petite bit dicey when Callisto call in a telepath (I used to think those people were just stories – working for Essex open my eyes about a lot of things). I haven't had much dealings with telepaths but a man in my position (usually on the wrong side of the truth) has a built in wariness of them. There was nothing I could do, though, but grin and bear it.

The bald squirrel looking telepath plunged into my head, and you better believe that hurt (Essex says my mutation makes me both partially immune to telepaths and dangerously susceptible to them – don't ask me how).

I had a plan though, Remy Lebeau always has a plan; I gave him (a guess, how do you tell the sex of a squirrel?) an eyeful, metaphorically speaking. It was simplicity itself to throw up a bunch of old memories of Sinister and what he did to me and all the rest of the hell my life's been recently.

If Squirrel-path going to poke about in _my_ head he going to pay the price, non?

The whole thing didn't take long; I threw a few of my favourite nightmares at the homme and waited for the screaming. Nutsy the Squirrel boy didn't disappoint. I decided to give him some story about being hunted by a red-eyed, white skinned devil man just to add some spice.

Squirrel-homme bought my cover story hook, line and sinker. He went scurrying back to Callisto and told her I was in terrible danger and that I needed 'asylum'. I ended up feeling sorry for the skinny rodent, he talk up so well for me.

Still I came to the conclusion at that point that telepaths aren't all that bright, non? Least not the ones that look like bald, six foot man-squirrels anyhow.

C'est la vie, all that matters is that once again, Remy Lebeau the charmer, talk his way into another weird situation.

Essex will be tres, tres pleased.

* * *

_The snowball that begets the Avalanche – Monday _

Tommy was a cute lil' fille, too young I guess to be living in sewer pipes and sub-way tunnels, but then, I was raised on the streets of the Big Easy until my tenth year, so it don't mean much to me.

Still, sweet kid, Tommy; ugly and creepy, but then, she's a Morlock and that's pretty much a requirement of entry (unless you have the charm of ol' Remy Lebeau that is).

While lil' Tommy is yammering away about something or other, I'm thinking about the chances of getting the Marauders into these tunnels quiet and stealthy like and them odds are not great.

It's not that the security is all that (or that they got any at all, n'est pas) but they got look-outs and bodies that going to notice if a bunch of gun toting psychos come a-calling.

'My friend, he works for this thing called the 'Hellfire Club' and he's in California right now, in L.A., but he said I could come and visit him, cool huh? So that's what I'm going to do….go visit my friend.'

I'm not really listening to the girl until she says this, then she's got my undivided attention.

One of the Morlocks is leaving the tunnels to go see a friend, eh? Stands to reason that she's going to be coming back sometime……and maybe some of Sinister's psychos can tail her?

I spend a bit of time talking to Tommy, easing the details from her, though she's happy to share. Poor dumb kid, by the time I was her age I knew better than to talk to my own Guild as free and easy as this kid is to me, let alone strangers.

Once I have what I need I give the fille some cash for her trip; she going to have to hitch a ride on a freight train to L.A. can't get on a bus or a passenger train looking like she does, but she might be able to buy herself something nice when she's there, non?

I leave the tunnels easy enough. Callisto was happy to let me come and go when she found out how I make my living (the thieving, I mean, not the slave labour to Essex part) and I'm happy to share a little of the proceeds of my 'foraging' with the folks down in the tunnels.

They may be freaky looking but they good people.

Shit…….I need to stop thinking like that. These Morlocks are not people; they can't be people to me. They're just a job, another consignment……a piece of kit I'm acquiring for Sinister. I can't care about these people cause then I'm going to start thinking crazy thoughts about maybe warning them or something. I can't do that; Sinister will know and he'll kill me……..or worse.

I keep telling myself that maybe things will work out; some of the Morlocks will probably jump at the chance of joining Sinister. It's not like the job offers be rolling in for them, non?

Who knows he might be able to fix some of the freakier ones, oui? Like the quiet jeune fille with the pink hair and all the bones sticking every which way out of her. Sally or Sophie, her name is, non, that not right….._Sarah_, that's her name; little Sarah who cry herself to sleep because her own bones are ripping her to pieces, poor kid.

Essex knows mutants, he has DNA molecules or whatever for wallpaper in his lab, maybe he could make Sarah better, fix up her mutant genes just right? Do for her what he did for me.

It's okay to do a bad thing if it for a good cause, non? The ends justify the means and all that? It be like one of those intervention things they give alcoholics. I lead the Marauders into the tunnels, we grab some of the Morlocks, take them to Sinister and he over-hauls their genetic make-up; makes their mutations work right.

In a round about way what we doing could be doing these Morlocks a favour, non?

Oui, they end up Sinister's property but that's better than living in dark, dank tunnels, non? And they get to be normal looking and maybe live up on the surface. It's a fair exchange, right?

Jeune fille like Sarah and Tommy deserve better than they getting from life as is, and if the Devil the only one that's going to fix it for them, well, way I see it that's heaven's fault.

This could all work out, oui, little bit of fuss, maybe some damage along the way, Callisto not going to like it, but the Morlocks will come around. They will see it Essex's way, go along with the deal and work for the homme. Yes, the Morlocks will come round to Sinister's way; just like I did.

I mean it's not like the Marauders going to give them any choice, is it?

* * *

_The snowball in hell….carnage is the world - Thursday_

I run fast but I go nowhere.

I can't see, can't hear, can't smell or taste anything except the screams and the blood and the stink of piss and vomit and things that should never be seen or smelt.

I'm running so fast it feels like I should be able to run clean out my body. Even lil' Sarah in my arms don't feel that heavy; don't even feel her spiky spine bones digging into me.

I know these tunnels in and out, up and down already, but now I'm lost. There is no map for this carnage. There is no escape.

Everywhere there are bodies….how can there be so many? It's like the walls are bleeding and the ground is flooded with blood.

I run blind because I can't stop; Creed sliced me up but good, I know it. I know that the blood that splashes down around me is as much mine as anyone's. If I stop I die. If I die, Sarah dies.

There are so many dead already.

Something trips me and I fall, twisting as I go down to protect the Jeune fille from the impact. Hit the blood soaked tunnel floor real hard and I can feel things sliding loose through the tears in my flesh. Don't dare look down at my gut, scared of what might be poking outta me.

Never been hurt so bad but I don't feel it; can't feel anything. Everywhere is screaming red and black and there's fire and smoke all over. The sound of crying is real loud, it rises and falls in the heavy air like something alive; reaching for me, chasing me with every howl and moan.

I try to get up, Sarah clutched to me; gotta get out, gotta get out.

Something has hold of my foot; reach down to tear the cord from around my ankle and it squishes in my hands. The cord is veined with blue and slicked with blood; it's steaming hot still as I trace the length of it with my eyes to where it starts.

The dead eyes of Squirrel-homme the telepath aren't seeing all that much as I realise that the cord is coming from him. Or what's left of him.

'Mon dieu, nononono……sweet god, no.'

I kick and thrash to get free when I realise what I've landed in and almost knock Sarah out of my arms as I struggle to stand. Squirrel-homme is still staring at me……and he got no legs; the cord of his intestines steams and coils like a nest of bloody snakes from the trunk of his body. It looks like he's been torn in half and I'm standing in the middle of what's left.

I press Sarah's head against my shoulder, though it seems to me that even with her eyes closed she'd see this. A blind man could see this horror.

My eyes are wide and even in the corners I see the death, the bits and pieces, and I don't know what they are…then like a jig-saw puzzle, or an Escher painting, I see.

I see the bodies….I see the people whose names I wish I don't remember. I see their eyes; they are looking at me and they all look so surprised.

They don't know why they died and I don't have any answers. I stand and start running again.

Blood and shit and darkness and the sounds of children screaming and screaming and screaming; the whole world is this tunnel. The whole world is blood and stink and screams.

I run. I bleed. The screams and the stink fill me up as my blood hits the floor to run like a river. I can't barely feel Sarah in my arms and it's real hard to know if I'm running still or if I'm dead.

Still it don't stop; the screaming goes on and on. The blood is everywhere. I am blind and deaf and everywhere I still _feel_ the death and the destruction and the horror; it is me, I am it. There is only this chaos.

I am the death and the horror and the destruction and everywhere I can feel the Morlocks die. With every step I take another falls; I run away and the screaming chases me.

The tunnel opens up, suddenly, and the world explodes into noise and sight and sound that isn't screaming and stink and blood.

I hear voices raised in fright. The voices of 'upworlders' as the Morlocks call them. A light rushes up towards me, heading straight for me. A siren screams and the crunching metallic screech of a sub-way train's breaks shrieks through the air.

I see the ledge of the subway platform and I throw Sarah onto it as the air churns and the brilliant light keeps coming. One little life; one pained, miserable life is all I could snatch from the hell of the tunnels.

The light is blinding and I smile into it. The angels of heaven are coming for vengeance. The angels of mercy come to claim the Morlocks and take them to the Kingdom of Heaven.

The light and the wind and the rushing feeling of something huge and unstoppable bearing down on me, fills the world. I drop to my knees and open my arms, welcoming my death.

The light becomes darkness and the screaming starts again; I fall to hell once more.


	19. Chapter 19

**Part Nineteen: Massacre part two: There is no heaven nor hell anywhere but that which is found in the heart and soul of man**

It's dark in here, quiet, too hot and the air is stale with the stink of medicine and disinfectant. It's not a hospital, it's just a room. A room in a house in someplace somewhere and outside the window over there, the one with the thick drawn curtains, people are going about their lives like everything is normal.

I want to hate them for that.

All the people everywhere that live their little lives with their friends and their families and their dogs and cats and whatever the hell else normal people fill up their dull, stupid lives with; I hate them all.

I don't want to live in a world that keeps going, like everything is fine, after what happened. Nothing is fine, nothing is normal, how come those people outside, the ones in their cars and their suits with their pilates classes and their PTA meetings get to have all that and the Morlocks are dead before any of those other people ever knew they lived?

How come I'm alive when they are not?

What kind of world saves the life of the man that caused all that death but no one help the Morlocks; how does that work?

It's dark in here, but then that could be on account of the fact that I got my eyes closed. It's easier that way, easier to keep the tears hidden, crocodile tears, that's what they are. How can I cry now for a bunch of bodies I led to the slaughter?

I hate it. I hate me; I hate that it was my own Guild (ex-Guild) that snatched me from the subway tracks when I was ready to meet my maker, ready to serve my time in hell.

I hate my Pere for coming for me; hate my Frere for sitting at my bedside when my guts had been sewn back into my body and Henri held my hand like he actually gave a damn whether I live or die.

Where the fuck was he when I needed to know I was loved; when I still deserved it?

This is hell, right here, right now, I am in hell. I am burning in the fires of the pit with each kindness shown me. Every time the nurses my Pere has hired fuss over me like it matters if this body of mine lives or dies, I can feel their touch burning me and scolding me.

This is hell when my Pere watches me, hour after hour, as I sit in this chair and don't eat, don't talk, don't do anything because what the hell am I going to do now? What the hell does a killer do; kill some more innocent, helpless people? Go back and live it up like they got no soul?

I can't do that; never had soul enough to stop what happened, didn't even manage to get lil' Sarah away and safe, she ran right back into the tunnels soon as the Guild arrived, but I can't just get up and go on.

I hate myself for making that call to my Pere; a coward's way out, couldn't save myself so I run to Jean-Luc, blood on my hands, blood on my soul, and he still come and save me like when I was a kid and he pick me up off the Rue Royale and gave me a life.

It's hot in here; I won't let anyone open the curtains and the summer heat is making me sick, but I don't want to see the sun. I don't want to feel it on my face when the Morlocks never even had that pleasure before I killed them.

I killed them; never raised a hand against them but it was me that killed them. You can't blame the 'gator for being a 'gator and there no point in saying Sinister kill them Morlocks, because I knew he was evil, I saw it, I felt it, I made myself blind to it.

I didn't want to be the victim this time, well voila Remy, good work boy, you not the victim this time, you the villain – take a damn bow.

Scalphunter, Sabretooth, Arclight; they were just the weapons, the smoking guns. A gun don't kill people on its own, there got to be a body pulling down on the trigger. I was that person.

I set up the shot and Sinister and his Marauders took it. Mon dieu, I made the Marauders, hand picked them.

I killed the Morlocks and God help me I never knew I was doing it. God damn me; I never knew.

The door to the room I'm in opens and my Pere walks in carrying a tray of food, I realise that if I can see that then my eyes are open and so I shut them tight, like a child.

The food smells tres magnifique, my stomach (back where it belongs, in my body, under seventy-seven stitches and seven hours surgery to stop the internal bleeding) grumbles, betraying me. My body's not done living; my body don't care that I got no right to continue breathing.

I shiver, even though I'm sweating in the close heat of the room, I can feel my Pere's eyes on me, staring, watching. Can feel the questions he won't ask because he knows he's never going to get me to answer (there are no answers).

I don't feel hate, don't feel disgust or anger. Jean-Luc never asked why I did it, or what happened to me that I be involved in something like that.

Maybe it don't come as a surprise, non? Maybe he always knew that le Diable Blanc was more devil than anything else, eh?

Be nice if someone would have told me, though; maybe if I'd known about the evil in me I could gone and put a bullet in my brain years ago.

'Remy I know you can hear me, won't you look at me son?'

My heart (ha – like I got one) squeezes closed to hear my Pere talking to me in Cajun French. I waited three years to hear him call me 'son' and talk to me like this and it hurts, mon dieu, it hurts, to hear it now.

Now that it's too damned late.

I hear my Pere sit down on the edge of the bed facing my chair, wedged into the corner, where I sit day and night, barely moving because it's only in the silence and the stillness that I can bear the thought of being alive.

'You getting stronger, Remy, the doctors' real pleased with you,'

God help me, lord have mercy, but I don't want to be fucking stronger. I am not strong; I'm weak and because I'm weak good people are dead.

'Tante says you got to work through this on your own. Every man's got to face his demons in his own way. Only you can decide whether you can live with your pain or not.'

I faced my demon already mon Pere, he made me a monster and then he had Creed rip me open while people died all around me. I faced my demon and he had my eyes; he gave me purpose and I opened the door for him to bring hell to Earth. I'm never going to forget the face of my demon, mon Pere.

What does it say about me even now, eh? That I'm angry, feel _betrayed_, that Sinister used me and then tried to kill me. I thought I was worth more than that to him…..sweet god it's like snakes and broken glass in my head. Twisting and writhing and poisoning my thoughts; I can't escape and lord knows I don't deserve to.

'But I know you Remy, you not broken by this, you going to get your feet, going to get through this. Henri's making arrangements, in a few weeks when you stronger, you going to Madripoor, Clan Lebeau have some connections there; you need to get out of the States for a while until the heat cools off, get your head together.'

Non Papa, when I'm stronger, when I find what courage a coward has, I'm going somewhere else. I asked you to save me and you did, Papa, but there some things a body don't deserve to be saved from.

I have a reserved seat on a one-way trip to hell and I'm going to take it. I'm not afraid. Dying and burning in hell for eternity sure beats living with what I've done. I'm not brave and I sure as hell no good, but I can fix one thing. I can make sure Remy Lebeau never ever has the chance to hurt anyone else ever again.

I can't save the Morlocks; no one can now, maybe no one ever could, but I can give the dead their dues: I can kill their murderer.

I can kill Remy Lebeau - the traitor.

I can do it and I will soon as my Papa and Henri and Tante Mattie leave me be. I can do it, even though my body still wants to live, because killing is easy, I learned that sure enough.

I can die and I can say I do it for the Morlocks, because I sure as hell can't stand the thought of living with what I've done.

I heard people say that only the good die young and cowards never die, but then Remy Lebeau never been one for listening to what people say.

I deserve to die for the Morlocks, for all the little crimes and petty cruelties, for all the scams I pulled and the lies I told. The world be better without me; all I ever do is cause pain.

I deserve to die and rot in hell. I need to die for what I did. Killing myself, protecting other people, innocent lil' filles like Tommy and Sarah, from a man like me, that's all I can do in memory of the Morlocks; I need to die.

That's what I tell myself hour after hour, sitting with my eyes closed, not moving, not eating, not talking, in this one room somewhere in the big, wide world that don't care enough to notice that the Morlocks are dead.

I tell myself I do it in penance; that I make myself suffer before I end it all because the Morlocks deserve their vengeance, non?

I tell myself and I tell myself the same lie over and over and over again, shutting out the world. I try to drown out the little voice in my head that tells me the truth I still, even now, even after all of this, don't want to hear.

The little voice tells me, in the dark and the quiet I hide in, that the real reason I want to die got nothing to do with the Morlocks; they dead, they gone, they past caring. Non, the real reason I want to die is because I am a coward.

I want to die because the thought of living with what I've done and what I saw scares me shitless.

I'd sooner die a villain, too dumb to know he was one until the blood and the screaming filled the world, then get up outta this chair, walk outta this damn room and back out into the sun and the wide fucking world to start my real penance.

Death is easy but redemption is too fucking hard to bear.

C'est le vie; I think I'd sooner die.

Die a coward, the way I lived.


	20. Chapter 20

**Part Twenty: Madripoor Nights: Nak Nak who's there?**

'Mon Dieu, why is no'ting ever easy?'

I can taste the metal on my tongue, my throat hurts where I shoved the barrel of the Baretta in too far and my right hand is cramping around the gun, fingers almost wielded to it.

Who knew committing suicide be this hard?

How hard can it be, non? I got the gun, got the bullet (only need the one I figure), how hard can it be to do this? It don't take much in the way of higher brain function, just working digits, non? All I have to do is pull the trigger.

Bang: je suis mort; easy, oui?

It took me weeks to get my head together enough that the Madripoor Guild let up on the twenty-four hour suicide watch and the regular morphine shots, weeks of careful lying through word and deed to convince them to let me outta the safe house without an escort. It's not that they care if I off myself, but the Guild Patriarch owes my Papa big and letting his crazy son die on his watch is not a good way of settling a debt, is it now?

You know the really sick thing is that I planned this, meticulous like, planned how to get hold of the gun, how and when to do it, even where. Standing up here on this old railway bridge looking down at a dry open water drain, I figured if I stand with my back to the open air, then, even if the bullet I'm going to bite don't kill me, the fall ninety feet off the bridge oughta finish the job, oui?

What I didn't figure on was me. The irony almost enough to stop my heart, all those months of insisting to Sinister, and Grey Crow before him, that I'm in no way a killer, that I'm not going to pull the trigger on anyone, guess it was true, huh? I won't even pull the trigger on myself when I know I god damn deserve it.

Karma's a bitch with a twisted sense of humour.

Why is it so fucking hard to shoot myself in the fucking head? Course with my luck, bet I'd still probably miss; no doubt I'd take out a couple of nuns or some orphaned kids that pop up outta nowhere just in time to take my bullet, that'd be about right for Remy Lebeau. How many more people going to have to die before I get a clue; I do not deserve to live.

You know if I weren't me and trying to die here this would be tres amuser.

Remy Lebeau not a quitter though (hell, anyone knows my nicotine habit knows that; still, a bout of lung cancer would be a treat right now). I raise the gun in my sweaty hand, the sweltering Madripoor night heat like a living blanket curving around me and reminding me of nights in the bayou. For a moment I stare down the barrel of the gun, into that hollow of blackness. I close my eyes as my vision fractures into tears I refuse to shed for myself as I jam the barrel of the gun into my right temple.

Three, two.......

'You are rather stupid, are you not thief?'

'Fuck!'

I nearly fall backward off the bridge in sheer fright and as my arms pinwheel to help me catch my balance the gun flies from hand and down to the ground below. I watch it fall and see it land in the dry dust.

'Fuck it.'

'Well that was entertaining,' an adroit pause, 'Stupid thief.'

Once my heart goes back down into the cage of my chest and I'm breathing normally I hunker down onto the Bridge railing. I deliberately don't look over to the owner of that voice hoping that the femme will get the message that I'm not looking for spectators, or conversation. 'Course I been hoping that she'd go away for the last three months, ever since my Pere pumped me full of morphine and shipped over here.

_I won't go away because you wish it. Courtesy would dictate you at least acknowledge my presence._

I wince, that's the other thing about this femme; she's a telepath and way better than Squirrel-boy the Morlock, let me tell you. Slowly I turn to face her with my brain still twitching from her pins and needles mental fingers stroking my grey matter. Oui, that's as unpleasant as it sounds.

'You mind, ma cherie? I tryin' to kill myself here.'

Nak Nak is tiny with dark, olive gold skin and a fall of black hair that goes down to her knees. Her dark eyes are filled with a kind of knowledgeable amusement that makes her seem much older than her years (though, truthfully, I don't know how old she is).

'You are not trying very hard, stupid thief. How hard can it be to pull a trigger, even for someone as stupid as you? Or perhaps your brain is so small you were worried you would miss, hmm?'

English is not Nak Nak's mother tongue but she uses longer words than I can and she does it without an accent – damn, I'd start to take elocution lessons from her except I'm trying to commit suicide and I don't reckon the way a body talk much matters in hell, anyhow.

Nak Nak raises one eyebrow and though she's under five feet tall she manages to make me feel small, 'Very, very stupid thief.' She shakes her head slowly.

'You gon stand there and insult me all night, Nak?'

'Perhaps,' she shrugs, 'it's a slow night.'

I roll my eyes and consider taking a flying leap off the bridge. Ninety feet.....well maybe if I hit head first it would do it?

'Mebbe I should tie my hands behind my back, eh?' I think out loud. It don't matter if she hears me talking to myself because she can read my thoughts anyhow.

'Maybe you should realise what your body is trying to tell you?' Nak Nak interrupts my suicide planning, sounding tres pissed. 'You do not wish to die. It is not your fate to die for your sins, stupid thief, but to atone for them.'

I raise a hand to my ear and look about me in exaggerated fashion, 'Dat's funny, t'ought I heard somet'ing,' I pause and Nak Nak sighs with quiet annoyance, 'Non, it gone, never mind. I got concrete to eat.'

'You could slit your throat, wouldn't that be a better way to ensure you died? I know you are agile, you might merely cripple yourself for life in the fall but still survive.'

She points out just as I'm lining up my fall. I sigh. I hate this femme; what business is it of hers, anyway?

'Haven't got a knife, cherie.' I answer tiredly hoping she'll go away and leave me to kill myself in privacy.

'Drug overdose?'

'Mutie metabolism; burn the narcotics off before they stop my heart. Been there, done that, had the flashbacks.'

Nak Nak sighs again and I hear a rustle of fabric as she shifts in her white pyjama outfit that makes her look like a lil' girl in grown-up's clothes. I turn to face her while perched on the top pillar of the old bridge. Something in me surrenders, mentally I'm hoisting a white flag.

'Okay cherie, I not havin' the evening I planned, mos'ly on account o' de fact dat I'm still alive, so why don you tell me what you wan' t'say.' I sigh deeply, 'I'm listenin'.'

Nak Nak cocks her head to the side, 'Why do you want to die?'

I repress a shudder and try not to frown as my eyes flicker away from her, 'You know why, Nak, you seen it in my head.'

And she had; when I first come too and found myself in Madripoor I went a little crazy (or a lot crazy – when you blow stuff up by touching it crazy gains a whole new definition) it was Nak Nak that the Madripoor Thieves Guild called in to calm me down before I blew the Guild sky high. The femme had her a first hand view of my inner hell.

Weirdly she didn't seem fazed by it and she never once looked at me like I'm a monster all the times she came to nag and bully me outta bed and into the real world (or downtown Madripoor, which is not exactly the same thing but it's the thought that count).

Nak Nak studies me carefully with her old, old eyes. 'I've seen acres of pain, torment, and rage inside you. I have seen malice and immorality in you. I have seen violence and bitterness and terrible, maligning fear. I see you drowning in guilt; but I do not see any real desire to die.'

I can't make myself meet her eyes, 'You see any desire to live in me either, ma cherie?' I challenge real quiet like.

I can't deny what she's saying, I'm stupid, sure, but I'm not that stupid, if I wanted to die I'd be dead right now and not having to listen to this crap.

Nak Nak shakes her head, 'Yes and no; you hate what you are, Remy Lebeau, and you hate what circumstance and ill-venture has made of you, but you do not crave death. There is something in you stronger than that.'

I fumble for a cigarette and light it with a finger, 'Mebbe, Nak, or mebbe I'm too selfish to die even t'ough I know I don' deserve to live,' I twitch my shoulders in a shrug, 'dat don help me much t'ough, not when de only t'ing I know how to do is hurt people.'

'Are you too old to learn something new, thief?' Nak Nak shoots back, folding her arms across her chest.

I look at her carefully as I exhale a perfect smoke ring, 'Non, but I pretty stupid, learnin' not my forte, non?' I give her a faint smile, she don't smile back.

'What would you be, if you were no longer you?' she asks me seriously and I just give her a blank look.

'Pardon?'

'You have been raised a thief and taught cruelty and depravity by a master in that art; this man Essex will haunt your mind forever, his lessons and teachings will whisper to you always in the dark regions of your thoughts, but that does not mean you need follow those teachings.'

I shift position still perched on top of the bridge, knees bent, elbows rested on my knees and balanced on the balls of my feet like a Cajun gargoyle, as I try to stop myself thinking about what she says. I've managed for the last few months, don't see why now should be any different.

Except that for the first time in too long I don't feel scared outta my mind and sick to my stomach; it's strange but I woke up this morning (afternoon, if you going to be literal, but that's not the point) and realised that bellyaching and feeling bad is not an indulgence I deserve.

I realised right then lying in the bed the Madripoor Guild gave me to pay off a debt to my Pere that I'm tired of being scared, being sickened by the sight of my own face in the mirror. I can't live like this no more and I know, deep down inside, that I never really wanted to die.

I killed the Morlocks but I never wanted too. It was not my will and I had no damn choice. I did not know they were going to die; it's no excuse, I know that, but damn it, it's a reason.

Sinister gets to live, Creed, Scalphunter, the rest of the Marauders, they knew what they were doing, I didn't, don't that mean anything? Don't it change things any?

Mostly, I realise as I stare into Nak Nak's dark doe eyes that see right through me and don't turn away in horror that I don't want to die as a thief, a murderer, and a coward.

I'm not yet twenty-two years old; there is more in me than the scum I see in the mirror, there's got to be.

I meet Nak Nak's eyes and she smiles nodding her head and I hear the echo of her words in my mind. Her words telling me over and over again in the dark times in the middle of the night when all my demons come out and play, that if I hate what I be, then I got the power to do something about it.

It's about the only power I have, Nak Nak told me that too.

I don't know why but something makes me twist on my perch and look down over the bridge to where the shadows lurk below and the gun, my gun, sits in the weed and dust choked bottom of the cracked concrete water drain.

_Go ahead and jump, stupid thief, if you really want to kill the evil in you then you do it, don't whine about it._

Nak Nak's thoughts whisper through my mind; it prickles like pins and needles, trying to push me offa the bridge. I realise then (or maybe Nak Nak is telling me) that I can jump and fall through the night and shadow, I can fall and when I land I can leave the broken pieces of Remy Lebeau behind me.

'I don know how, cherie,' I admit and I don't mean falling, falling's easy, it's the getting up part that I don't know how to do. I don't know how to pick up the pieces and make something better outta Remy Lebeau. All I ever learn how to do is be the man I hate.

Nak Nak smiles, eyes glittering, _Jump; jump and let go of what you hate._

I quirk an eyebrow, 'Dat hasn' been so easy so far, cherie.'

_You have been doing it wrong, stupid thief. You still cling to your guilt and your hate and your fear; let them go and jump. _

I finish the cigarette and stub it out on the pitted, rust flecked frame of the bridge. I look down over the edge to the scrub filled dry drain and cracked concrete below.

'Dere ain't much else in me 'cept the pain and the guilt and the hate, Nak.'

_Precisely; isn't that what you want, stupid? To do away with what you are?_

'Oui, it is, but I figure it gon be harder than jus' bungee jumping without the bungee line, non?'

_Why?_

I glance back her, her face is puzzled, 'Why would it be hard? You stumbled into sin why not stumble into redemption too?'

'What......what if I can't do it, what I done.....how does anyone make up for dat?' I whisper, Mon Dieu what I would not do to know the answer, what I would not give to fix it all.

Nak Nak is watching me and I know she can hear every thought I'm having. Her eyes have a light of approval in them, but I don't know why.

'Those who seek redemption find none, but those who simply shoulder their burdens and begin life anew find more reward than they ever hoped along the road.'

I snort a laugh and turn away from her eyes, though on account of her kindnesses I don't laugh too long or loud, 'I'd just like to be able to sleep through the night once in a while cherie.'

Nak Nak smiles: _Then jump._

'You gon catch me Nak?' I joke weakly, suddenly not wanting to jump, suddenly feeling afraid, not of death but of life.

_If you wish._

I pause for a moment, 'Be nice if someone was dere to pick up de pieces once in a while, dat's for sure.' I murmur.

Nak Nak don't say (or think) anything but I know she hears and I can feel something like warm pins and needles prickling along the base of my skull, like fingers against my brain; weird that it feels almost comforting, in a creepy unpleasant kind of way.

I jump; don't think about it, just do it, which usually works best for moi.

I've fallen from high places before; I've jumped off my share of tall buildings just for the hell of it and one time I even ejected from a stolen fighter jet over the Gulf of Mexico when I was a pup. I know what falling feels like.

Except that falling feels different this time, the wind hitting my face, arms and legs loose, body relaxed and my mind opening like a sprung safe box. All the dark things pour out.

I see Essex's face leering at me as Scalphunter drags me outta the Deprivation tank. I see Creed laughing as he guts me, already covered in the blood of dead Morlocks. I see my Pere's face when he disowned me in front of the Tithe Collector and the two Guilds. I see Julien lying dead on my wedding day, the rapier dripping blood as I hold it in shaking hands. I see a flash of Bella-Donna's face as her people drag me away.

I see other things too; the things I forgot. I see the Pig, that freakish thing, the one that kill my cousin Etienne when I was fifteen. I see Guinevere's face, her head shattered on the cobblestones, Notre Dame's buttresses casting shadows as I cradle her while she dies.

I see it all; I taste it, smell it, feel it all over again. It's brighter and colder and worse, so much worse, than the first time; living all the bad stuff over and over again in the time it takes to fall off a bridge.

My body twists and shifts my balance in mid-air ready for my landing as my mind and soul speed like a bullet through a thousand years of purgatory and tear through hell too fast to notice.

As the wind smashes into me and drags through my hair it claws over my clothes, my skin and my bones to my head and my soul. I can feel it and it feels like Nak Nak, spirit fingers digging into my grey matter and exposing all the bleeding, poisoned wounds to the air.

It hurts like you would not believe; like a pain I never knew existed, worse than anything Sinister ever did to me. It hurts like hell but I'm smiling because with every moment of agony it gets easier. This pain is my penance and my reward; a man with no soul couldn't feel this kind of pain.

I start to think like I can live.

My feet hit concrete and a cloud of dust rises as I catch my balance at the concrete base of the bridge support and take a deep breath as the impact courses through my feet to my knees and up my legs to rattle my chest, I'm going to be sore tomorrow, but for now I feel no pain.

It's over now; I jumped, I fell, I picked myself up again and I know I'm going to live, know that I _can_ live.

It won't be easy I know, there be more pain probably, and one day I'm going to have to pay the piper for what I done, but that day is not today and it's not my decision to make whether I live or die for my crimes.

I understand that now. The only power I have is the power to be me; I gave Sinister power over me and I paid for it. I can't change what happened and maybe I still have to suffer for it, but not today, not now.

As I shake out the aches in my legs I see the gun beside me on the ground, I smile, knowing that whatever answers I need I'm not going to find them down the barrel of a gun. I look up towards the bridge again to where Nak Nak stands, so little she's hidden in shadow but I know she's there.

_Are you a gambling man, thief?_

I flex my fingers, smile playing on my lips, 'Been known to dabble, cherie.'

I can't see it because she's above me and hidden behind the framework of the bridge but I can feel Nak Nak's smile.

_Good, I have a proposition for you; a final gambit for a gambler looking to improve his luck. Interested?_

A gambit, huh? My smile grows larger; life is a gambit, just a ruse and hustle the whole way through. Maybe it's time I played my own gambit, eh?

Gambit? Mais oui, that'll work nicely.

I start to climb up the framework of the bridge leaving the gun in the dust where it belongs. The stars are out, bright in the inky Madripoor night. What's that Oscar Wilde quote: we all in the gutter but some of us are looking up at the stars, oui, that's about right.

It's time for this thief to crawl out of hell; it's time for me to reach for heaven because it's only there that I can start to pay the debts I be owing.


	21. Chapter 21

Part Twenty-one: Picasso's blue period and jeune fille falling from the sky

So, I really should have guessed my luck would change sooner or later.

I'd hit Cairo Illinois like a hurricane; hitting the homes of crime syndicates with a speed that was just stupid…stupid for anyone but 'Gambit' the best thief that ever did appear out of nowhere.

The first couple months had been fun, I guess. Had a hard time accepting that, Catholic conscience and all, but it was fun to just kick up some dust and rob a bunch of murdering fuckers blind.

The Mafioso, the Cubans, the drug runners and the people traffickers, none of them knew what hit 'em. I never worked so fast, so good, so god damn smooth. Mon dieu, it was tres, tres, magnifique.

I felt alive again for the first time in too damn long.

Nak Nak told me it would help if I ply my trade among my own kind; rob from the wicked and give to the pathetic: that was my new motto.

Baby steps, Nak Nak said, told me that a body like me, pretty much steeped in sin and crime, not going to be able to turn my back on that. I got to learn righteousness at my own pace.

I said to her, I only mortal cherie, I don't got that long.

She said, do your best, no one expects miracles from you.

It helped. All my life people been expecting from me more than I can give. My Pere thought I was going to save the Guild (ha-ha, that worked out a treat, non?) and it seems to me like most everyone expect me either to be better or worse than I am and everyone I ever met knew more about me than I do. Not one of those bodies ever just told me what they want from me or what they know that I don't, but everyone punish me when I don't, when I _can't_, deliver to their expectations.

Nak Nak lets me set my own limits; we both happy about that.

Nak Nak don't over-estimate my basic intelligence either; she don't expect me to go out and save the world or nothing (can't imagine how fucked up the world got to be that it needs me to save it) all she tell me to do is steal, swindle, and basically screw with people that deserve it. Tres bon, that I can do.

Still on this day as I was standing before the Picasso blue (hate Picasso, the guy gets celebrated for making bug ugly pictures of things that don't even look like what they supposed to – I've seen five year olds with more talent) trying to figure out how to get the picture out of the frame (which is alarmed six ways from Sunday) and away with me when there's this almighty crash, like thunder, and then a child screams.

I knew that my luck was running thin when the kid fell in the swimming pool a few feet away from me. I knew that my luck was run empty when I found myself crouched at the edge of the pool (don't ask me what a pool doing in the middle of a living room, no accounting for taste for this Sicilian Don) trying to fish out the body.

I'm really hoping that the 'body' is still breathing.

Nak Nak told me that somewhere inside me, despite everything, I have a good soul. I might be good at evil but it don't mean I like being a monster. Nak Nak says if I don't think and just act my better nature should come out.

It's the thinking that gets me into trouble; apparently, I'm pretty fucked up in the head.

Quelle surprise, non?

So anyway, back in the moment when my happy existence as a better dressed Robin Hood started to get tres, tres complicated, I'm pulling the jeune fille out of the water. Flip her over so I can check her airways and shove all this thick white hair from her face.

These gorgeous blue eyes pop open like a doll to fix me with a real intelligent, but scared, stare; this fille has the weirdest eyes I've ever seen (and coming from me, le Diable Blanc, that's pretty ironic, non?). This girl's eyes are like a cat's, pupils not round but vertical and they huge, taking up most of her face.

All in all I figure out pretty quick that this chile gotta be a mutant. That kind of colouring, white hair, chocolate skin, weird blue eyes……those just not natural.

While I'm thinking to myself that I might have been better off not fishing this kid outta the water she starts fighting with me, struggling like a drowned kitten in my arms. She say something defiant like, don't know what, not really listening on account of the fact that I'm trying to figure out what the hell is going on and how I'm going to get myself out of it.

'De name is Gambit, padnat, an' I don believe a word,' I tell her, not really paying attention as I heft the kid up into my arms and she more or less pass out, shivering and far too light for a kid her age.

I'm trying to figure out the best way of carrying the kid and wondering if I can grab the Picasso while I'm at it when something weird happens.

(I know….who would have thought, eh?)

The glass patio doors on the ground floor shatter as I'm passing them and….wait for it….this homme, all hunched over and gambolling on all fours, pounces through the shattered opening.

I drop the girl onto the love seat and pull out some of my throwing spikes; I don't know if this be a man or a shaved gorilla, all I know is that it's dressed in skin-tight leather and a spiked choke collar like an S&M party reject.

You would think, after all I seen, that weird shit like this would just stop bothering me, non? I mean nothing in my life has ever exactly been Vanilla normal, n'est pas? Still being attacked by a man in fetish clothing slavering like a dog is enough to raise the eyebrow of the most jaded of professional cads (and being that gentleman I know what I'm talking about).

After I perforate the homme-chien with my spikes and kick him to the curb (or into the swimming pool, if you going to be literal) I turn to pick up the jeune fille only to see the kid sitting bolt upright and her eyes all white like roiling storm clouds. She points one finger.

'Duck,'

I hit the floor and over my head, with the tang of burned Ozone stinking up the air even more than dog-homme in the pool, a streak of honest to god lightening shoots over my head and straight at a second Monsieur Fetishist.

Huh, guess I was right about the jeune fille. Not many thirteen year olds be doing that, oui?

It's at this point, as I'm picking myself up and the girl turning those blind white eyes on me, that two more of the leather-clad fetishists leap through the window and broken patio door.

I have time to think where are they all coming from? Before the brawler instinct in me kicks in. 'Course as it turns out, I'm not going to be taking on these sado-masochist B&E merchants on my own.

It happens so easy, like we been tag-teaming forever, but as I spin, pivot on my heel, and draw back my arm to throw my payload of spikes in one smooth movement, at the same time the chile with the strange eyes waves her hands in this real graceful movement and this huge gust of wind picks up my spikes and sends them, and the leather clad weirdos they sticking out of at the time, flying out into the darkness outside.

Nice, real nice; I tres impressed. This girl has power and she knows how to use it. Which is more than I did at her age, but then I've never been known as a fast learner, neh?

Still I'm not so shabby now.

My spikes slice through S&M homme number two….or is it three or four?....and his dance partner S&M fille. They fall squealing like stuck pigs to the patio outside, bouncing end over end painfully. As a nod to my attempt to clean up my act I not be charging my spikes enough to explode and tear them bodies apart, just enough to hurt like hell when they hit.

Of course if I was really ready to turn away from my bad old days I could just use the cards and retire the spikes……but I'm not that good yet.

Every little counts I guess….baby steps like Nak Nak said.

The girl is staring at me and my new brace of spikes, hand glowing nicely, with wide eyes, 'You….you are a mutant?'

I give the girl my patented jack-ass smirk (mostly because I haven't patented a polite smile that I could direct to the 'jeune fille with the lightning' so she don't fry me), 'Been called a lot of t'ings in my time, ma chou-fleur, mutant only one o' them.'

The chile obviously don't really look like a cauliflower, but I always found that French endearment tres amuser. Though on second thoughts what with the mane of white hair sticking up every which way from her head like she shocked herself with them lightning bolts, she do look just a petite bit like a cauliflower after all.

I keep this reflection to myself though, Gambit a charmer and a charmer don't tell a femme of any age that she looks remarkably like a vegetable. Mon dieu my thoughts are all over the place tonight, non?

'I am storm,' the chile tells me seriously with this tres proper pronunciation that make me think she learn English from listening to broadcasts of the BBC world service.

'Pleasure to meet you, ma belle Stormy, but I t'ink we need to be away now, non?'

I snag the shivering girl up and pull her from the loveseat, the girl struggles against my hand on her wrist, 'Do not call me that, I said my name is Storm.'

'Padnat, we got to go.' I can hear and I know she can, that there be movement above our heads; scrabbling feet, likely more of the S&M crowd, moving above our heads and headed for the stairs. They maybe even climbing the outside walls of the building, which, when you think about it objectively, has got to be a very strange sight. What are these things and what they want with the Jeune fille?

And more to the point, why is it that I always get myself into these types of situations?

Of course, Gambit, if you had two brains cells worth the name you could just be asking the girl these questions, non?

I cut a sideways glance towards the girl who is staring up at the ceiling in obvious panic, 'Who're you friends, cherie?'

Flashing blue eyes try to strike me dead where I stand, but it don't seem like the fille can shoot lightening from her eyeballs so I avoid being lit up like a Cajun Christmas tree.

'They are not my friends. They are the hounds of the Shadowking.'

I can literally feel my eyebrows clawing up my forehead and trying to make a break for outer orbit.

Saints……the hounds of the what?

'Dat right?' I murmur because Gambit too smooth to show that he is well out of his depth right now.

Shadow King, mon dieu, you have got to be kidding me……

'I will not be taken; I will not let him have me.'

The girl is shaking real hard now and I don't think it got to do with being soaked through either. There's real fear in her eyes, tightening her lips, her fists are clenched so tight pinkish stained water drips from her hands where she's cut into her own palms with her nails.

This is something I understand; fear, helplessness, running away from something that is bigger, stronger, smarter and meaner than you are. I know what it feels like to be a kid with no one to depend on but yourself and knowing, because you not completely stupid, that you going to lose.

Nak Nak said that sooner or later I'd get the opportunity to start a new life as something better. That an opportunity to do something good would just turn up right before my eyes.

Mon Dieu……..I hate that that femme is always right.

I reach out and pull the girl close and a little behind me as the 'hounds' come thundering down the stairs and through the broken windows, 'Okay-dokey then, Stormy, I guess we gon be barbecuing us some 'hounds', non?'

I flick my wrist to re-ignite the charge through my spikes, letting them burn white hot and feeling the power flaring in my own eyes. The girl watches me, face cast into lurid pinkish shadows by my power. She smiles, big and wide and just a little blood thirsty and lightning dances over her fingers.

Me and the jeune fille turn to stand back to back (though the petite fille's head only come up to my lower rib-cage). I guess tonight I found something way more valuable than a Picasso.

Gambit, he have the luck of the devil……never know what I'm going to get but I know I'm never going to be bored.


	22. Chapter 22

**Part Twenty-two: Conversations in Baton Rouge**

I wake from the nightmare again and roll over to see what time it is. Figures, the glowing neon green lights on the cheap electric alarm clock display tell me it be 2am - it always is. Don't know why, don't want to know, but it is always 2am when I come up outta that same old nightmare.

It's strange but it's not the tunnels I see in my nightmares, it's Essex's lab. It's empty and quiet and there's this one real bright, real harsh, white light hanging from the ceiling right over this operating table, all stainless steel and cold shimmer; that's it, just that light and that table and smooth, dull metal walls.

It's absolutely silent and still inside that lab and I don't know why that's all I see or why, after everything that I done, that one empty lab and that bright, hard light should be the thing to rip me outta sleep night after night after night, but it is.

One bright light, too harsh for my eyes and too damn cold, and one smooth, spotless operating table. All the vicious steel tools lined up in their little metal tray beside the bed waiting…….just waiting.

It's a prophecy, that's what it is, a warning. That room, that operating bed and those tools, they my conscience's way of letting me know what's in my future. I never escaped Sinister; I'm never going to be free of him, even if he thinks me dead at the moment 'cause Creed couldn't resist getting a little revenge of his own. Non, one day, because of all I done, I'm going to end up in Sinister's lab and when I do I'm never going to get away again.

That's what the nightmare is, the promise that one day Remy Lebeau is going to get what's coming to him; Essex's final payment upfront and in full. I close my eyes again for a moment and take a deep breath, just like Nak Nak told me to when the nightmares and the memories get too much.

_Accept the blood debt you owe Lebeau and live with it; one day you will be held to account for your actions, but that day is not today and you escape nothing and achieve less by burying yourself in self-indulgent guilt until then. _

It takes me a minute to recognise that the sound of soft sobbing is not just a figment of my imagination, takes me another moment to realise that the sound's coming from the same room as me (it's two in the morning – so I'm not at my quickest, neh?).

When I finally figure out where I am, why I there, and who is with me I haul myself up offa the foldaway couch and get to my feet, rubbing sleep outta my eyes as I look to the petite jeune fille in the motel bed (the motel only have a single room available so I get the couch - lucky break this place even had one, I tres sick of sleeping on the floor).

Stormy looks like a big kink in the bedsheets, she's gone and cocooned herself in the blankets as if just 'cause I can't see her I'm not going to know she be crying (ha – that never work, ought to know I tried it myself when I was her age).

There be any number of ways to deal with this but me and Stormy been on the road a couple weeks now and I learn a thing or two about this fille; she's none too fond of sympathy and she don't like to be seen as weak. So with that in mind I chose my words carefully.

'You mind, padnat, a body don' get no sleep wit' you whimpering and sniffling like a bebe, non?'

Oui, I know I'm a sympathetic soul, me, and it works like a charm too. The jeune fille is up and uncoiling outta them there sheets like a rocket, sitting up in the bed face soaked in tears but eyes blazing with pride.

'I was not whimpering!'

'Sure you weren' Stormy,' I give her the patented smarmy ass smirk that I got down so good and turn away, making a show of straightening up the sheets on the fold-away couch while giving the padnat time to get herself together. She sniffs mightily and I see her wipe her nose on her arm (gon' have to teach the fille some manners someday).

'Do not call me that; how many times must I tell you my name is not 'Stormy'?'

I turn back and grin at her over my shoulder, 'At least one more I figure.'

She huffs at me, clenching her fists around the mounds of tear stained blankets as I stretch out the kinks in my spine and the aches from my muscles (that sofa-bed not the most comfortable). I can feel Jeune Stormy's eyes on me, watching, still close to tears but not crying at the moment. Know she's still fighting the nightmare and the fear, know she's exhausted but afraid to sleep. Know all that because I am too but one of us got to be the adult and, sadly, looks like it's got to be me even though I'm not qualified for the position.

'You wan' go put some clothes on, padnat?' I ask casually as I flop down on the side of the sofa-bed and fish my jeans off the floor.

'Why?' she asks me and she's so cute when she's suspicious. She glances down at the over-sized t-shirt that covers her almost completely as if suddenly worried it gone and disappeared.

''Cause I going out an' what kinda responsible adult gon' leave a jeune fille alone in a strange motel room unsupervised, eh? You be at de mini-bar in ten seconds flat and dose Toblerone's you so fond of ain't cheap.'

When I first decided that I'd keep the fille with me after we escape that Lian Shen femme and the sado-masochist wannabes from hell, I was a petite unsure what to do with the padnat. She's old enough and I'm young enough still that we can't pretend to be father an chile or even brother and sister (not to mention we look nothing alike). I was also worried, me growing up on the street and knowing a little about the seedier ways of life, that the jeune fille would think I was a pervert or worse if I booked us a motel room.

Course as things fell out we been too busy over the last fortnight running away from this Shadowking homme and his 'hounds' (and yeah, I still struggle to keep a straight face when dealing with them even though I know they dangerous), to really worry too much about the more mundane awkwardness of our situation.

I finish pulling up my jeans over my boxers and pull my t-shirt over my head. We in Baton Rouge tonight, the padnat managed to fly that heap of junk derelict airplane all the way down from Illinois but she couldn't quite make the final stretch to New Orleans and we crashed just north of Shreeveport, been inching our way south ever since. Part of me is tres, tres relieved we didn't make it all the way to Nawlins. Don't know really what possessed me to tell the fille to head for the Big Easy, except of course that no matter what, it is always going to be home for me.

'Where are we going?'

Stormy is still in bed, still watching me real intent like. That look used to give me the willies (what the hell she looking at – or for?) but now I just figure it be the way she is and let it go. I don't blame the padnat for being distrustful; hell that's why I like her, she's not stupid enough to trust nobody.

I shrug in answer to her question, 'Does it matter, Stormy? De night is still young, non; dat the best time o'night for folks like us, oui?'

I wink at her and see her smile flash to life before she can think better of it. Stroke of luck that the fille I chose to save from the daddy of all evil ends up being a thief in training, non?

'Very well, I will come with you,' she gives me a haughty look as she slips out of the bed, 'you may need someone to protect you should the hounds find you.'

I give her a little bow and wave her toward the bathroom where she can change, 'You too kind, Stormy.' I give her a look and she giggles, which makes me smile 'cause I like to see the padnat smile; she's too serious.

Once she gone and closed the door behind her I let myself sink back onto the couch and cradle my head in my hands, elbows on my knees. I haven't had much time to think about what the hell I'm doing with this girl until now and for the most part that's a good thing (things tend to go wrong when I try and do thinking – it's not my strength after all) but even Rem – no even _Gambit_ – not so stupid that he don't know he needs to make some big decisions pretty quick like.

I'm in Louisiana again, four years after I left the state. I have to decide if I'm really going to waltz back into Nawlins with the padnat with me. I don't even know whether the ban has been lifted on me going home. I need to talk to my Pere and Henri, haven't seen them or talked to them since before they shipped me off to Madripoor. That was almost a year ago. Hell, I don't even know if they know I'm back stateside.

Mon dieu this is a mess; what am I going to say to my Pere? Salut mon Papa, I back in town, could you keep de assassins offa my back while I show my new friend de t'irteen year old fille de Big Easy?

I swallow a laugh, oui that will go down well. The last time I saw my Pere I was off my head and ready to kill myself. I don't know what he's going to think when I saunter in with a new name (such as it is) and an underage femme on my arm. No, that's a lie, I know what he might say and it makes me squirm just thinking about it. Non Papa, I not gon funny in de head, in fact I turn over a new leaf. Believe it or not I saved dis pretty jeune fille from a bunch of leather clad hard core fetishists and an evil psychic body-snatching bad guy called the Shadowking……..mais oui, mon Pere going to have the padded room and the big ole syringe of morphine ready before I can finish talking.

Damn……this doing good thing is tres complicated. I'm going to have to do some serious thinking before me and Stormy get to Nawlins and, like I say me and thinking, well it never worked too well for me in the past, n'est pas?

'Gambit?'

I jerk my head up and look to where the fille is standing, dressed in pale pink shorts, running shoes and a white t-shirt. She got her hands on her hips and she's frowning at me like the demanding lil' mademoiselle I already know her to be.

'Oui, cherie?'

'I thought we were going out?'

'We are.'

'Then why are you just sitting there?'

Cause it's two in the morning and I've not slept right in months, and cause I never been able to co-ordinate doing multiple things at once especially when one of them things involves thinking. I think but don't say; going 'bout talking like that going to ruin my reputation right quick.

'I been waitin' for you, padnat, you took your sweet time in dat dere bathroom, non?' I grin jumping to my feet and striding over to the door of our motel room. I pull open the door, grabbing my trench where I stowed it as I go.

'Wait for me!'

The padnat can fly like a bird in the sky but she still run like a new born colt; legs too long for her and too much eagerness with no place to go. She makes me smile. For a little while me and the fille just walk along the streets, headed vaguely in the direction of the state legislature building because it's visible on the skyline.

Stormy catches hold of my arm as we walk and slips her little hand in the crook of my elbow. We done this a few times already in our brief acquaintance and I know that the jeune fille happy to just walk beside me without saying anything; it's nice.

'Gambit?' she say my name eventually. The night is cool, not too humid, but no chill neither. It's a nice night (or early morning if you going to get technical) and there's still some folks about but they don't bother us.

'Oui, Stormy?' we come to the tended gardens and manicured lawns around the state building and I flop down onto one of the benches looking up at the huge edifice to ego the great Kingfish himself built. Stormy sits beside me, her feet kicking like a child (which I s'pose is accurate).

'Tell me about New Orleans.' Her big, weird blue eyes almost seem to glow in the dark like a cat. Of course that's just my mind playing tricks on me cause, of the two of us, mine are the only eyes that glow and it's just my excellent night vision that lets me see so much anyhow.

'What you wan' know?'

Could be that I been talking up the Big Easy lately as a distraction, thinking that maybe if I talk about it enough the fille won't realise we not actually _there_, non? Or maybe I'm trying to get my nerve up to go on home and reminding myself of the good stuff help me do that; who knows, it's not like introspection my forte, eh?

Stormy pauses as she thinks about things. She studies me real close, sitting all self-contained and grown-up like on the bench (save for her skinny lil' legs kicking), 'New Orleans is your home, isn't it?'

I shrug; way to go for the jugular ma cherie. 'I s'pose some might call it dat, Stormy, but me, I don got a home. Go where I please me; not'ing to hold Gambit chained to one place.'

Liar, liar, pants on fire; shame on me shovelling this crap on a lil' girl, of course admitting that I'm worried that the folks back home might kill us both as soon as we set foot in Nawlins not much better, is it now?

Stormy glances down at her clasped hands, 'I do not think I have a home either. I was drawn to Cairo…….but it was not the way I thought it was.' She looks up at me quizzically, 'There were no pyramids.'

I chuckle at that, 'Well no, cherie, dat cause you got de wrong Cairo. If dere were pyramids in Illinois I'd 'a noticed.'

'Egypt.'

And there so much confusion and longing in that one word that it makes the heart I don't have ache for her, hell if I thought it would help I'd take the padnat to Egypt myself, show her every pyramid she could ever want to see.

Lil' Stormy squeezes her eyes closed and clenches her fists. 'I have such strange thoughts sometimes. I see a mansion covered in ivy and surrounded by trees. I see people who look scary and wear strange clothes and yet…..and yet….'

'Dey familiar to you, non?'

Ever since I went rooting about in the padnat's things in that airplane of hers (oui I know that tres impolite, but hey, I'm a thief, non?) and found that photo of the woman with the white Mohawk and the leathers that looked like an older version of my Stormy me and her been talking a bit about her strange dreams, the memories she's not sure are hers. There's not a damn thing I can do to help her, but Stormy seems to like to talk about it sometimes.

'Yes,' Stormy nods vigorously, 'Gambit what do you think it all means?'

I laugh, I can't help it, it's just too funny that she be asking me; like I ever know what I be doing let alone what's going on with her. I fish out a cigarette from the pocket of my trench coat, 'Padnat, I the last person to be askin' 'bout the meaning o' dreams. I'm jus' a simple t'ief, non?'

Stormy shakes her head at that giving me this tres adorable lil' stubborn frown, 'I do not believe that for an instant.' She folds her arms across her chest in a huff.

'Pardon?' I quirk an eyebrow, careful to blow the smoke away from her; I come over all responsible now I got the fille with me. Don't smoke indoors less there's a window I can sit by, try not to leave my cigs anywhere she can grab one (know the fille's got sticky fingers on her) oui, I'm the model of moral guardianship, me.

'You are not just a thief; you are a mutant obviously and…..' she stops short and a blush creeps over her cheeks, 'and you are my friend.' She says softly not looking at me.

It's a childish thing to say, said by a lonely lil' fille who got no one to turn to; I know this, I know that it don't mean much in the grand scheme of things that one jeune fille with her back against the wall looks to the only person who help as a friend, but suddenly it's like something snatches at my heart and I can't catch a breath. I wonder what it says about my basic state of being that a lil' girl telling me I'm her 'friend' both hurts like hell and makes me feel…..what does it feel like? I don't even know. It's been so long since anyone ever call me friend.

'Oui, Stormy, Gambit your friend alright.'

I find myself saying cause the fille looks so nervous and awkward like she's just admitted she got her first crush or something. When she jerks her eyes back to me I can see that she's close to tears again. I think she startled herself when she called me friend; me and Stormy got that in common, we don't like to let people close to us. We both been burned too many times before.

I finish my cigarette and toss it away. 'I take you out to the bayou and we go 'gator hunting when we reach Nawlins, padnat. Always wonder what happen to a gator that get struck by lightning, me.' I wink at her again, knowing that in the dark my eyes, they glow like embers.

Stormy stares at me for a moment caught between laughter and shock, 'I would never harm another creature for no reason; it is wrong.'

She says eventually but now at least she don't look like she's fighting tears, there's a light in her eyes now that wasn't there a moment ago.

I snort, 'Dere you go 'gain wit' dat right and wrong stuff. What're you cherie a t'ief or a saint?'

Stormy pokes me hard in the ribs in annoyance and folds her arms, jutting her chin out. 'I do not see why being a thief means that I must be a bad person.'

She's got you there, boy, of course you happen to be a bad person and a thief, not the other way around. I smirk, 'You obviously not been raised Catholic.'

Stormy frowns thoughtfully, 'No, I don't think I am Catholic.' She looks frail and sad once again. 'I'm not really sure what I am.'

I sigh and jump to my feet so quick I make the fille start with surprise, 'I know what you be, padnat.'

She looks at me with big, sad eyes, like them ugly pictures of the puppies done in velvet you get in crappy souvenir stores. 'What am I Gambit?'

I smile at her and this time it's a real smile, 'You Stormy, padnat.'

I tell her simply and reach out to pull her gently to her feet, tucking her hand in my arm once again like a proper gentleman, one dat takes his thirteen year old new best friend for late night walks in empty parks, but so what, it's the thought that count, no?

'That's good enough for me; everyone got them a past, cherie, but that all it is: past.'

Hahahahaha…….even I'm shocked that the heavens don't open and strike me dead for that garbage. Still it seems to work for the padnat. She's looking happier so I suppose one lie is not so bad after all. What's that saying 'bout good intentions, eh? Never mind, I already got me a reservation for the penthouse suite in hell as it is.

'You hungry padnat?' I ask as we start walking.

'I do not want any more fries, Gambit, I do not like them.'

'Chh Stormy, I beginnin' to t'ink dere som't'ing wrong wit you, chile, you don' like fries, you don' like Big Mac's; you sure you really t'irteen?'

'I do not eat meat; I do not need to eat the flesh of another living creature and I do not see why so many living beings should be killed simply to satisfy my appetite.'

'Stormy, it's MacDonald's dere no real meat in MacDonald's.'

'Then I most certainly do not want any – I have no wish to eat artificial food.'

'You got to eat, padnat, you too skinny.'

'I will not eat meat – or fastfood.'

'Then what you gon eat; I don' see no drive-thru vegan restaurants round 'ere, do you?'

'Then you will have to find one because I am not eating MacDonald's.'

'You know, Stormy, I'm beginning to seriously regret fishin' you outta dat swimming pool back in Cairo.'

'No one asked you to, and do not call me Stormy.'

I start laughing then; Stormy's got to be the most ornery and stubborn fille I ever met – and she's not even full grown yet. What makes it nice is that after a minute she starts laughing too, bumping her head against my arm as she snuggles close.

She called me friend; she trusts me even though she got no reason to and suddenly the idea of being friends with the fille don't seem so strange. It seems right, like I finally found someone I can depend on – which is stupid because I'm the one that's got to have the fille's back, being the grown up and all.

Still as we make our way back to the motel I decide that, screw it, tomorrow we set out for Nawlins and we just going to have to see how the cards fall; I mean what's the worse that can happen, eh?


	23. Chapter 23

**Part Twenty-Three: Over the rainbow into wonderland; Toto never had it this rough.**

So I be sitting in this lil' dive out in the Nawlin's backwoods, beer in my hand and too many thoughts in my head – and my lil' partner talking on and on about the craziest stuff I ever did hear. I bite back a snort, it never fails to amaze me how fucked up my life be.

I thought I was on to a good thing with the padnat. Oui, there was the Shadowking breathing down our necks and I was having to grow eyes in the back of my head to watch out for the Assassins Guild and that, but me and Stormy, we be making a killing: the two Robin Hoods of the Gulf Coast. It was all so much fun that I should've known it would all go wrong sooner or later.

It's not like I got any right to be happy, non?

'I remember everything, Gambit. I remember Nanny's attack on our base in Australia. I remember the SHIELD decoy body double and Nanny manipulating Havok to fire on the craft. I remember it all as if it were yesterday.'

My lil' Stormy is still talking and I have next to no idea what she's going on about. Watching her while she's talking I just can't get my head around how everything changed so damn fast. My Stormy sitting there, legs kicking against the old booth, glass of lemonade beside her and a handful of peanuts in her hand and she looks the same, she almost acts the same, but the words coming outta her mouth be all wrong.

In fact Stormy's not really been herself since we escaped that talking metal egg thing, Nanny, that's what that thing be calling itself. I'm not going to pretend I understand much of what happened except that Stormy got her memories back, apparently, and she seems convinced that she's actually a grown woman in a child's body.

Oui, things be pretty screwed up alright.

Stormy been going on and on 'bout these X-Men folk, 'her family' she call them, 'her tribe'. She told me all about how she got turned into a lil' girl by this Nanny thing in Australia and all of her 'tribe' they think she's dead. I look at her kinda blankly for a bit when she tells me this and then suggest we go find us a bar cause after being smacked about by the rube in the armour (orphan maker Stormy call him) and poked about by that Nanny I'm not feeling up to any more weirdness less there's beer involved.

So now after we get the stink of bayou water outta our hair and skin and change clothes we end up sitting in this lil' place I know just outside of Nawlins, me downing beers while my partner becomes a different person.

'Gambit we must return to the X-Men immediately.'

'Dese de folk that be thinkin' you dead, non?' I ask carefully. X-Men, the X-Men….I heard of them, of course, think I remember seeing them bite the bullet in Dallas a while back on the TV – although apparently the afterlife looks a lot like the Australian Outback if you an X-man.

'Yes, that is why I must return. It has been almost a year; I must know what has become of them.'

'So you wan' go to Australia, den?'

I am well outta my depth and not happy 'bout it. Mais oui coming back to Nawlins weren't no walk in the park but this is not what I was expecting. I have no will to visit the Outback that's for damn sure. I think about telling the padnat that it tres inconsiderate of her to get her memories back and want to hightail it outta here, especially after all the trouble I went to making Nawlins safe for us.

Course I don't say any of that but my mind goes back to that first meeting with the Guild and my Frere again that night me and the padnat reach Nawlins. The Guild not best pleased to see me, quelle surprise, though my efforts to start tithing to them on the commission from me and Stormy's pinches helped to make them a little less homicidally inclined and, weirdly, Henri was downright friendly (by his standards) when I contacted home to tell my Pere what I be about.

It's strange really how it all went down, I was expecting no end of grief or anger – (the anger that they have to be feeling about what went down in those tunnels but are not going to say when I'm crazy and hurt) - but Henri never said one word about it when I met him in Florida after me and the padnat finished that Safilios pinch.

He asked me what I be planning to do with Stormy and I told him I didn't know but I was thinking once she gets free of all the people hunting her I'd maybe try and help her find her family – or get her a new one. Henri told me that the Guild had worked out a deal with the Assassins so that, as long as I keep myself low-profile and don't piss any one off intentionally (no easy feat for me), me and the fille can hole up in Nawlins for a while without fear.

I found out later that I got me a reputation now; helping to slaughter a bunch of innocent people and hanging out with a gang of stone cold killers is the sort of thing to impress the Assassins Guild, apparently; I'm still struggling to swallow that one but it's a moot point now, oui?

'No Gambit,' Stormy is saying and I realise I zoned out there for a minute, 'I want us to go to Westchester county in New York.'

I quirk an eyebrow and reach for my beer, 'Why's dat?'

I notice that she's saying 'us' but I'm deliberately not reacting to it; way I see it me and Stormy's partnership coming to an end, non? Whoever my partner really be and whoever these X-Men be they not the sort of bodies a man like me should be tangling with.

'The mansion I spoke of, the one from my dreams, it is there. I believe in my heart that I shall find the X-Men there also.'

'Dat so?' I drain my glass and fish out a cigarette, Stormy's watching me with that familiar keen gaze and it makes me sad cause she's not my Stormy no more.

'Yes,' Stormy say and she's looking worried now, 'Gambit, my friend, what is wrong?'

I smile though lord knows there's nothing funny about any of this, 'Not'in' Stormy, it jus' a lot to take in, no? I get captured by a giant metal egg and then my partner, she tell me she been artif'cially de-aged and she really a mutant vigilante that de whole worl' thought be dead anyways.' I shake my head, 'I jus' a simple t'ief ma cherie, dis sort o' t'ing not my forte, non?'

Stormy is looking kinda sad and small all of a sudden, 'You are going to leave me, are you not?' she asks in a small voice and I jerk like she just shot me.

'Non,' I glare at her because suddenly I'm real angry. I'm angry because of the look in her eye, like she's expecting me to walk away from her, leave her to whatever and whoever just cause I don't want get sucked into her weirdness and I'm angry because once upon a time I probably would have. I take a breath because I'm not going to lose my temper with a lil' girl.

'I gon forgive you for talkin' dumb, cherie, cause you 'ad a bad day too, but I _tole_ you already, partners stick by each other, non? Gambit not gon leave 'til I know you safe, Stormy.'

Stormy just looks at me for a moment and then shifts a little closer across the cracked vinyl booth we sitting in and places her little hand over mine where it's resting on the table top.

'Thank you my friend,' she bites her lip looking up at me with big, blue eyes full of something bright and fine that I don't have words for, 'thank you for everything. I promise you, you will not regret this.'

It's strange but it's like a chill runs down my spine and I have to stop myself from shivering. I got this feeling like I just signed my life away or something; made some kinda commitment that's bigger than just taking the fille up to New York, something that maybe one day I am going to regret more than anything else – and considering all my regrets that's saying something, non?

Mon Dieu but I'm morbid today, oui? Shaking off them doom and gloom thoughts I do like I always do and smile and make a joke outta everything.

'I gon hold you to dat, Stormy, an' I warning you, padnat, you not going to be makin' no vigilante hero outta me.'

And Stormy, she smiles real secret like and her eyes are bright and guileless as she squeezes my hand, 'We shall see, my friend, we shall see.'

* * *

So now it's a week later and I'm driving the rental car up to Westchester County because Stormy, my lil' partner, insisted on it; we been on the road non-stop more or less for the past couple days, I had to fight with the fille to get her to stop at a layover to eat and sleep in a real bed, she's got a real fire in her to reach this Salem Center place and this old house on Graymalkin lane.

I don't know what to think about that. Stormy, when she not be complaining that we going too slow, talk non-stop about these X-Men and all the insane things they done. I think mostly she just needs to talk about it because all these memories are filling her up – she got more memories than a thirteen year old should have, they too big for her, non?

Right now I'm wired on bad coffee and nerves and Stormy's out like a light fast asleep in the front seat (reckon she talked herself into a temporary coma) and we're not that far now from this Salem Center place; course that's assuming I read the map right. It's funny, but as much as Stormy remembering now she can't read a map or give directions to save her life. C'est la vie, it's not like I'm in any hurry to get where we going anyhow.

I don't know what I'm worried about, that Stormy's in for a disappointment and her 'tribe' not going to be there, or if I'm scared that they will be there and Stormy going to be welcomed back with open arms? What then, eh? What you going to do, boy, when your lil' padnat not need you no more? Go back to stealing from drug dealers and mobsters on your lonesome and pretend you're coping when you're not?

Oui, most likely that's going be what happens real soon. Even if we don't find Stormy's X-Men in this old mansion in Westchester I know that I've got to give her up. My Stormy's not my Stormy after all; I have no right to be using her, and her vulnerability, to make me feel better about myself, that's pretty low, even for me.

It's not really like that though, it's not. I'm not helping Stormy cause I'm trying to make up for failing to save lil' Sarah and Tommy and the Morlocks (well, okay, it's a reason, oui, but it's not the only reason) no mostly I've been helping Stormy because she's my friend and I don't want see her hurt.

So what, eh? The reasons don't matter in the end, all that matters is the results and who do or don't get hurt cause of what I do or don't do. That's always been the lesson of my life, never matters what I _meant_ to do; I only ever get slammed for what goes wrong.

Still, considering what my mistakes have cost other people I don't have any right to complain, oui?

So this is what I gotta do, not cause I'm guilty and need to do something good just to prove I can but because I owe it to Stormy. I help the fille, help her find her people, and make sure these X-Men not some bunch of weirdos not fit to take care of the padnat and then I'm going to get gone. Maybe this is my one good deed in a lifetime of nasty shit and I'm just going to have to get used to being lonely 'cause I'm not fit to live with decent folks - and I know that's the truth.

The scenery has changed out of the windshield, even the greenery looks expensive round these parts and the houses are top dollar but refined, quiet. This is old money round here and I figure we getting close. I reach across the front seat to wake Stormy with a hand to her shoulder.

'Stormy, cherie, any o' dis looking familiar to you?'

Stormy sits up groggily and looks outta the window, her whole face lights up then and she sits up real straight all of a sudden. She turns to me and she's got this smile on her face a mile wide – radiant –that's the word for it.

'Gambit – we are here!'

I look about me for any signs for Graymalkin lane or Salem Center, 'How you wan' do dis Stormy?'

I ask real casual like when I spot a sign for Salem – ten miles – just ten lousy miles left. 'I figure a bunch of secret mutant superheroes gon have some serious security, non? They not gon want jus' anybody to come up the driveway for a visit, eh?'

Stormy bites her lip, 'You are right Gambit, I….I am unsure how to proceed.'

'Well, cherie, I'm not seeing any signs for this Graymalkin lane and unless you suddenly 'member where it is we gon have to pull-over for some directions, oui?'

I glanced at her and raise an eyebrow as I pull onto Salem Center's main street, half expecting the streets to be paved with gold. 'So, how 'bout we grab somet'ing to eat and ask around while we figure out how to do dis, oui cherie?'

'Yes, yes that is a good idea. Let us do that.'

Stormy's practically got her nose squished to the glass of the window as she look about her at all the fancy-ass boutiques and 'shoppes' down the main street. I try to hide a smirk; me and Stormy are going to stand out like the proverbial sore thumb round these parts, her in her denim jacket and red cycle shorts and me in my trench. Course for a boy who's schmoozed in Monaco and Paris and most o' the best places in the world Salem Center not that grand but I can tell that the locals sure think they be.

I see a sign for a bar: 'Harry's Hideaway' and pull in across the street, hoping that we're not going to get a ticket for parking illegally (it's not the principle that bother me just the inconvenience). 'Dis place'll do.'

'Harry's,' Stormy sounds wistful and she is grinning real wide, 'I remember Harry's, Gambit.' She looks at me bright eyed, 'I think you will like the place.'

I raise an eyebrow as we walk across the street and I push open the door for her to go in ahead of me (I'm a real gentleman sometimes). Why's it matter if I like this bar or not, it's not like I'm going to be staying around long enough to build up a tab, non?

I have to admit though, when we get inside and the smell of good food and beer hits me like a warm, comfortable wave, that she's right, this place has a good vibe to it. Dark grain wood furnishings and panelling on the walls give it a refined feel but it's got a dart board and couple pool tables that obviously see some use too, so it's not some hoighty-toighty stuffed shirt place and it's not a total dive either.

It's crowded considering it is only just gone noon so the food here must be good. Lot of bodies here in shirt sleeves and business suits coming for their lunch breaks, I guess. Me and Stormy get a few looks but this obviously a place that lets in children so no one is going to throw us out.

I got my sunglasses on and everything looks kinda brown and dull inside but I'm not sure how the locals going to react to my eyes, so I keep them on, as I wade through the crowd to the bar pushing Stormy along ahead of me. I snag her a bar stool and she climbs up on it. We wait to get served and I lean my elbows on the bartop and frown at the no smoking in the premise signs behind the bar as Stormy looks for the vegetarian option on the menu they got folded up on the bar.

'What can I get you?' the barman (and I wonder if this be the ubiquitous Harry?) asks looking over both me and Stormy. I glance at the padnat.

'Well Stormy?'

'I will have the Caesar salad please, and a lemonade.'

I can't be bothered to read the menu myself and figure I should stay off the beer for the moment, 'Make that two.'

It is too crowded to find a table so me and Stormy take our meals at the bar. When the barman puts our plates down for us I ask him for directions, 'We looking for a place round here, Graymalkin lane, know whereabouts it be?' I ask politely as I pay for our meals.

A few people near us at the bar turn to look and I can feel the barman's interest pick up as he gives me this long look. I just look back at him politely and wait for whatever it is he's going to say. Next to me Stormy gets real still, she can tell something's not right too.

'You looking for the school?'

School? I raise an eyebrow before I can help it, 'Dunno,' I tell the man glancing over at Stormy, 'It's my friend here who be looking to get to dis place on Graymalkin Lane, I just the chaperone.'

The barman frowns a little and looks at Stormy who looks a little pale, 'Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, that's what it's called. That place is the only thing on Graymalkin.' He pauses again, 'It's a wreck though, been that way for a while; totally destroyed.'

Beside me Stormy gasps and her fork drops from her hand to clatter onto the plate. I put out a hand to steady her.

'Easy padnat,' I look back at the man tres unimpressed by his lack of tact, 'Dis place derelict den, or dere be anybody about we could talk to mebbe? Me and the padnat travel a long way to get here, after all.'

'I think there are some people living there,' one of the barmaids say, leaning over the bar, 'I was driving by that way on my way to old man Pritchard's orchard and saw some people out by Spuyten Dyvil cove. That's on the Xavier grounds.' She adds quickly when she sees my blank look. Beside me Stormy is almost twitching with anxiety and she's gripping my trench coat sleeve like a lifeline.

I smile at the woman, 'T'ank you, madame.' I purr, just to be polite, 'I don s'pose you could give a boy directions out to dis Xavier school?'

I give the smile a little more juice and watch as the femme colours up – gotcha chere, 'I be a long ways from home, see, and don know my way round these parts,' I nod my head towards Stormy but keep eye contact with the helpful femme, 'and the pet'te really lookin' forward to gettin' t'dat school.'

In the end the femme draws me a map on a napkin using her lipstick (and adding her phone number – just in case I need any further directions to anywhere, anytime) and most of the people at the bar end up chipping in some advice and goodwill when I tell them all a story about Stormy having some relatives there that she not seen in years and how we drove on up straight from Nawlins to see them.

Stormy's hot to trot to get out of there and up to this school which is really a secret hideout for a bunch of costumed mutant superheroes (Gifted Youngsters? – whoever this Xavier is he's got a weird sense of humour all I can say) but I know how this is done and so make her eat her meal and finish her lemonade before we get back in the car.

'Come Gambit, let us go now.' She practically tows me across the street to the rental; she's in such a rush. I can't help but laugh even though I'm not looking forward to this part one bit.

'Easy Stormy, we don even though if de folks de femme saw are dese X-Men, mebbe they just squatters, non?'

Stormy shakes her head so her hair goes everywhere as I start the car, checking the napkin map the femme (Carole, that her name) made for me. 'No Gambit, it is them, I am sure of it.' She clasps her hands together, 'They are there; I have missed them all so much.'

In less time than it takes to tell I'm parking up at the turn off onto Graymalkin lane (Carole knows how to give directions – I give her that) and me and Stormy are getting out. We both agree it's better to approach on foot through the woods than drive up the lane. Stormy seems to think these X-Men of hers likely to attack first ask questions later - makes me wonder if it's a good thing to leave her with them, non?

Me and Stormy don't say a word as we pick our way through the trees lining the estate, Stormy leading the way cause she insists she knows where she's going now and me letting her cause I don't really mind if we get lost, eh? That's when I get this creepy feeling crawling up my spine and all the hair on the back of my neck stands up on end. I'm reacting to the ambush before I have time to recognise the feeling.

I duck and roll and I'm on my feet and across the little clearing before the short, hairy, snarling - man? miniature bear? whatever - has managed to pull his claws outta the tree trunk where I was standing (oui, I said claws; he got him three freaking foot long spikes sticking outta his knuckles that make Sabretooth's set look like plastic picnic utensils).

Stormy is just standing there with this odd expression on her face like she's surprised and….happy?....at the same time so I push her behind me and fetch out the first thing I find in my pocket. It be cards and not knives but I suppose they going to have to do.

'Wolverine -NO!' Stormy cries.

The man with the claws is only about Stormy's height but he's growling like an animal and glaring at me. I'm ready when he launches himself in the air, claws first, and I sweep Stormy to the ground and fling my cards straight at the homme as I throw myself outta his path.

Boom, boom, boom……I left the cards only half charged, something about the way Stormy's acting makes me think she knows this man, and although he's trying to kill me I'm hesitant to blow him up if he be a friend of Stormy's. Course he keeps acting like a raving psycho I'm going to have to revise that decision real quick, non?

The man gets thrown into a tree with the force of my cards detonating, hard enough that if he were human it mighta snapped his spine but I already figured he's some kinda mutant so I figured he'd survive the impact; in fact he don't act like he felt it at all as he gets to his feet ready to spring. I pull out some knives; I'm thinking this little runt not all that bright, eh?

'Yer dead boy,' the hairy lil' jerk tells me in a mangled voice.

I'm just thinking of something witty to say when Stormy darts in front of me before I can stop her, lightning dancing in her cupped palms.

'Logan stop this madness at once!'

She snaps and she sure sounds like she means business. Whatever, her words seem to get through to the psycho midget and he…mon dieu….he starts _sniffing _the air like a dog…..or like Creed.

'Ororo……?' the man's got a voice like a hung over buzz-saw. It almost makes me wince to hear it. I glance at Stormy - _Ororo_ – is that the padnat's name? It suits her, it's exotic and beautiful. '…….no, yer smell like 'Ro, but yer sure don't look like her.'

Stormy still stands before me with her lightning in her palms, 'And yet it is me, my friend.' She says sounding not a bit like a thirteen year old girl, 'Goddess Logan what has happened to you? What has happened to the X-Men?'

Something tells me that we're not going to be fighting to the bloody death here after all, so I pocket my knives and fish out a cigarette from my pocket instead; this turning out to be quite a day.

'Dis a friend o' yours Stormy?' I ask dryly as I look about for a place to perch while I smoke my cig. The man growls at me.

'Who the hell're yer?'

I raise my eyebrows as I light the cigarette with my finger, 'De name be Gambit, monsieur, an' who you be?'

This Logan/Wolverine creature opens his mouth like he's going to try and speak again and I prepare myself for having to listen to it, but Stormy speaks up instead.

'Logan, Gambit is my partner, I trust him with my life and he has saved me many times.' She opens her hands in appeal, 'Please, my friend, I understand your suspicions and I am prepared to allow one of the telepaths or Cerebro to scan me to prove I am who I say I am; just tell me this: the X-Men, do they still live?'

This Logan homme straightens up and his claw things go 'snikt-ing' back into his hands and I gotta admit it creeps me out to watch it. What're they do, get sucked back into his forearm, or do they shrink or something to fit? Mon Dieu what I gone and got myself into here?

'Things ain't the way they used to be, 'Ro.' The man shakes his head then glares at me and Stormy (but mostly at me), 'I'm going to believe yer are who yer say yer are but I'll be watching real close,' he nods to Stormy, 'Yer best come up t'the house.'

Suddenly he's pointing one single claw up at me and snarling again, closing the gap between us fast. I make a mental note to remember that the old mangy rube can move when he wants to; get the feeling this is not a man I want to underestimate.

'Warning yer bub, I don't know yer and I'm not real fond of strangers, hear? Try anythin' fishy and yer and me going to have words that clear?'

Not really, I have no idea what I'm supposed to be 'trying' or what the hell this homme's problem is but he's clearly one of the people Stormy's come to see so I suppose I can play nice for now. I spread my hands out to my sides and give the man a bow, but never once drop eye contact.

'Whatever you say Monsieur Serval, whatever you say.'

I smile and the man growls but sheathes his claw and turns to lead us out of the woods. Stormy extinguishes her lightning and reaches out to clasp my hand. I look down at her in surprise and then I see the nervousness in her eyes.

'You okay, Stormy?'

'Do not call me that,' but she don't have no fire in her voice. I give her hand a squeeze.

'We can go anytime you wan', padnat, jus' say the word an' Gambit, I get us gone.'

I glance at the Logan homme's back, have the feeling he can hear what we're saying – but then, let him. I'm not going to be intimidated by a hairy midget with bits of metal sticking outta his hands.

Stormy looks up at me and something like relief chases over her young face before she gets control of herself. 'This is my home Gambit, the X-Men are my family.' And she sounds like she's trying to convince herself as much as me.

I shrug, 'Dese X-Men, they seem like a class act, too,' I nod my head towards the Wolverine, 'Your friend dere, he get boocoo points for de warm welcome, eh?'

Stormy looks like she can't decide whether to laugh or hit me (I get that look a lot –and with the padnat it's a fifty/fifty split either way) and then she squeezes my hand just a little tighter.

'I am glad you are with me Gambit.' She tells me real quiet, but again I get the feeling, watching the homme up ahead, that he's listening in real close to everything. I smile for Stormy even though I'm watching the homme real close.

'We be partners, padnat, like I told you, I not gon abandon you Stormy.'

* * *

_A/N: a word on third person. Gambit referring to himself in the third person is a X-Men: The Animated Series, invention. I don't think he has ever done it in the comics. The reason I have started using a little bit of it in recent chapters (only a little, too much and he appears somewhat stupid), is actually because Remy knows that 'Gambit' and the way he is portraying himself to Stormy and later the X-Men is not the real him. Gambit might not abandon his partner but Remy Lebeau as he used to be probably would have. In this story Remy is trying to distance himself from his old life by creating a new identity….that's why he states what 'Gambit' would/would not do in his speech….its an unconscious reflection of what's going on in his head. _


	24. Chapter 24

**Part Twenty-Four: Help! I'm a thief get me out of here!**

You ever had one of those moments when you wake up and just think 'Huh; dat was a weird dream' then you realise that it's no dream, all the weird shit is really happening? Well, I have that feeling pretty much twenty-four seven since me and Stormy arrive at the Xavier school.

I'm going to say it now, just to make it official, these people are all insane, they should be locked up and the key, it should be thrown away.

So, right now I'm sitting out on the pier by this lake, the one that Carole from the bar told me about, just trying to get some peace and get my head straight and I know that that chevalier Logan be lurking in the woods watching me, but I'm ignoring him because I'm not going to debase myself by letting the mangy Canadian nut-job rile me up, non?

I been here exactly one week but I woulda been gone in five seconds flat if Stormy had let me, but she won't. I don't know what's going on with that fille now, she seems to vacillate (new word – Gambit getting him an increased vocabulary, eh?) between strong woman in a child's body and a child trying to pretend she's a woman in a child's body, and believe me there's a difference. I think I'm her touchstone when she can't handle things and even I'm not heartless enough to leave her now.

It's funny but if I had any expectations about these X-Men at all, I figured they not be too quick to accept Stormy's story about being artificially de-aged and chased by the Shadow King and Nanny and whatever. I mean I was there for most of it and I'm struggling to believe it. I was wrong though, the X-Men, they seem to think it's perfectly acceptable that Stormy be de-aged, chased by psychic bogie-men and come trailing back with acne and a thief on her arm……but then who are they to throw stones, some of these X-Men weirder even than my Stormy at her best.

I'm not just talking about the Wolverine either; he's pretty straight forward in comparison.

They have them a telepath here (and oui, I'm not too thrilled about that – NakNak warned me to be careful of those) who's supposed to be a British aristocrat but she's recently come home looking like a Japanese ninja with a penchant for wearing a purple teddy around the place like she has no shame (not complainin' bout that exactly but it takes some getting used to) and to top it all none of these X-Men seem to think it's even a petite bit strange that the woman has come back a completely different person.

Anyway the whole setup here don't scan right for me; I mean these X-Men be living underneath the wreckage of the house that stood here in this tres impressive Star Trek knockoff sub-basement complex (all the stainless steel gives me flashbacks from Sinister's digs but I'm dealing). What's weird about it is that they have the powers, resources, and technology to rebuild the real house but they not even trying – it makes no sense.

I made the mistake of asking this homme, Banshee, about why they not re-building on account of the fact that it's no secret that they be here, everyone in Salem already knows they there, non? The dour (another new word and I'm being polite too, I have plenty other words for Banshee but I am refraining from speaking them) Irishman just gives me this long look and says to me:

'The X-Men have greater priorities than our own comfort, boyo.'

I ask you! We're not talking about gold plated fountains and Jacuzzis, we talking about a real house with decent plumbing and windows; they got a whole bunch of kids a petite bit older than my Stormy here, don't they deserve to have a real roof over them's heads, eh?

That brings me to all the kids, oui, I know technically this place was once a school but it's flat as a pancake now and there sure don't seem like much teaching be going on; least not the sort I always figured went on in a real school (not that I've ever been to school – but that's not the point). It seems a petite suspicious to me that there's so many kids here all living under the ground being drilled with this whole 'protect a world that hate and fear you – fight for mutant rights' thing they got going on here.

I lived in the real world, non? and it's not the humans and the bigots I had to fear, mais non, it seems to me mutants got more to fear from other mutants (just ask the Morlocks, oui?) and I don't really see how living underground in upstate New York playing war games in a metal bunker going to help these mutant kids live happy, well-rounded lives in the real world; but that's just me and what do I know about normal and well-rounded, eh?

For the most part I've been trying to keep as far clear of these X-Men and New Mutants (and oui if that don't sound like something outta the Hitler Youth I don't know what does) as I can without leaving the grounds. I get the impression the X-Men just as happy if I keep my distance though they're not saying anything overt – except Monsieur Logan and he don't count.

Speaking of the short lil' devil, here he comes now, trying to move real quiet like (and I have to admit if I didn't already know he's been watching me maybe he'd actually manage to sneak up on me).

'Bonsoir, monsieur Logan, can I help you wit' somet'ing?'

I don't bother to turn to face to him as he comes up behind me along the pier. Instead I lean back on my elbows, one knee drawn up to my body and the other leg dangling over the edge. It's a nice day (colder than I'm used to after Madripoor and Nawlin's but not bad for New York) the sun be shining down on the water and there a nice breeze making the surface of the lake choppy. The water is rippling like liquid fire and diamonds – it's pretty.

'Yeah, yer can tell me what yer doin' here, Cajun.'

The man's short, stumpy shadow falls across me from behind, I tilt my head back to look up at him with a grin; he's got a long ways to go before he comes close to intimidating me.

'Pardon mon ami?' Far as I can see I'm just sitting here enjoying the sun, but then I don't think he's talking about right now.

'Don't play dumb with me boy, I want to know what yer intentions are with Storm.'

'My intentions? I raise an eyebrow and give the homme poker face, 'I t'ink we already been over dat, non?'

It don't bother me that the X-Men real leery about me (hell it's the first normal reaction they've had – I wouldn't trust me either) but it does irritate me a petite bit that they fixate on me and Stormy's partnership. In fact it really irritates me that it be the Wolverine that's making not so subtle insinuations, he's got his own thirteen year old tagalong for Christ-sakes, and the petite Jubilee is a lot more dependent on Logan than Stormy is on me. Personally I think Monsieur Logan likes it, playing wise old man to some little chippy.

'Yeah yer just happened to be in the right place at the right time to rescue Storm and then yer just happened to decide to follow her back to the X-Men.' He lays the sarcasm on with a cement trowel, subtle he is not.

'Oui, mon ami, just like I say before,' About fifty times already. D'accord, it don't sound too likely I admit, but seeing as it is _the actual truth_ and these X-Men are not exactly vanilla normal themselves I don't see what the problem is.

Logan don't say anything for a bit after that and I dig out a cigarette, making a point of offering one to the hairy lil' midget even though I know he prefers the cigars. I make a point to be tres polite to Wolverine as it seems to piss the man off no end. Oui, I can be petty sometimes, so sue me.

After a little while longer, because I'm sick of having the man leaning over me ruining my light, I turn to him, 'I not plannin' on stayin' m'sieur, soon as Stormy settled and she don need me no more I be gone.' I offer hoping the reassurance will make him leave.

'She don't need you now.' Logan growls. I manage to keep the spark of anger I feel at his words hidden and shrug.

'Je regrette, but I beg to differ mon ami.' I say mildly instead of doing what I really want to do which is cram a charged blade up monsieur Logan where the sun, it don't be shining; but that would be rude and I'm a guest here.

'I ain't yer friend, Cajun.' Wolverine snarls but he don't sound quite so……pissed off now. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the homme keeping calling me 'Cajun'; oui, I be Cajun, get over it already!

I grin at the man instead and place a hand to my chest, second cigarette dangling unlit from my mouth, 'You wound me, m'sieur, an' here I t'inking we be getting' on so well, non?'

Casually I rise to my feet, clearly my peaceful afternoon of sunbathing be over and I might as well find some other place to hide out away from these hostile mutant nut-jobs.

As I'm passing him to walk back up the pier the lil' runt grabs my arm. Every brawler instinct in me screams to fight but I have me some self-control (unlike some people, eh?) and instead I just smile down inquiringly at the short, ugly lil' man.

'I'm warnin' yer, Cajun, I don't trust yer and I don't like yer. Yer got Storm wrapped around yer smarmy little finger but I'm watchin' yer boy.'

Throttling the very real and tres appealing desire to blow that ugly face right offa the half-feral lil' batard I give the man my most dazzling smile as I carefully disengage my arm from him.

''ppreciate the sentiment, mon frère, but Gambit a big boy now and I _assure _you, I can take care of mysel'.'

I give the homme meaningful eye contact, make sure he knows that I'm not afraid of him and anytime he wants to bring it on I'm more than ready to rumble. I think he gets the message loud and clear as he starts growling at me, but I'm already walking away, lighting my cigarette as I go with my finger.

Seriously, I need to get away from these people or somebody going to get hurt, non?

I'm making my way across the grounds with the intention of leaving and heading for some civilisation back in Salem (it's a fair walk but I'm happy to crawl over broken glass to get there if it means I get away from these X-Men) when someone calls out my name, well not my name but my calling, anyway.

'Gambit?'

I turn around and see Forge making towards me. I repress a groan and the even more compelling desire to just start walking real fast before the homme can reach me. I don't like Forge and he don't like me. He thinks I'm a threat to his relationship with Stormy and I think he's sick for even thinking about a relationship with Stormy when she's just thirteen.

Oui, alright, she be a woman grown in her head and she and Forge had a thing for years before she was de-aged, I'm okay with that on principle, but the fact is no matter what Stormy thinks or wants she's still, in body and spirit, thirteen and I'm not happy with that Injun metal legged homme sniffing about her. The fact that he thinks that's what I'm doing pisses me off no end.

Finally the man reaches me (not like I'm going to bridge the gap between us, the man want talk to me he can damn well keep up, non?), 'Gambit are you leaving?'

I smirk at the man, don't be getting your hopes up, mon ami, 'Jus' takin' a walk,' I shrug, 'dat a problem?'

I don't know what it be with these people; they don't like me, they don't want me here but they not about to let me leave. Every time I make any move to get gone, even for a few hours, one of them (usually Stormy) comes out of nowhere with all these questions like I've not got a right to leave whenever I damn well want. Personally I think they have that telepath Psylocke keeping tabs on me – I'm going to have to strengthen my shields, make it harder for the femme, non?

'Well now that you mention it,' Forge begins and I hike up a brow. If the homme even begins to suggest I can't leave I'm going to charge that metal leg of his and blow him to kingdom come, Stormy's beau or not, 'I, and the X-Men, were hoping you would be willing to participate in a Danger Room session. Ororo believes you would be more than able to undertake a standard drill and she herself has admitted to being interested in observing your powers in a combat situation.'

Okay, ignoring the fact that I don't know what this 'Danger Room' be in the first place there a number of things I don't like about this proposition. One, Stormy's already seen my powers in use against Nanny and the Hounds, so I don't believe that part for a second and two, the last time a body got real interested in my powers I ended up enslaved to a sociopathic evil genius and a lot of people died.

'Merci anyway, but I gon' have to pass,' I say politely and Forge's face is a picture, though I don't know why.

'Very well, then what about a physical exam, your mutation is rather unique and the X-Men would be interested in…'

I frown, getting creepy crawly feelings running down my spine, 'Je regrette, I do not do well with tests and exams, m'sieur.' I shrug, 'Not like there's much to explain 'bout my powers anyhow. I touch things they go boom, n'est pas?'

Forge is obviously having trouble with the direction this conversation be going. He looks like he can't decide whether to be mad or relieved that I'm not wanting to play X-Men games and do X-Men things. He sighs, 'May I be frank, Gambit?'

I shrug, though part of me is tres curious to see what the homme got to say, 'Go 'head, mon ami.'

'I'll admit that many of us here at the mansion,' ha that joke they not got no mansion, it's all just rubble and debris, 'are somewhat unsure how to react to your presence. Ordinarily when a mutant comes to the X-Men, and is allowed the level of access you have been granted, it is under the assumption that they will join the team.'

I quirk an eyebrow, it's not like I haven't figured out all that but still some things need be said, 'Never asked to be granted no 'access', homme, de X-Men not happy they gon have to take it up with Stormy.' I shrug.

The truth is I'd be happier if I'd just be allowed to find a place to stay in Salem Center and see Stormy during the day, but it's Stormy that seems bound and determined to drag me into this X-Men craziness deeper than anyone want me to be, including me.

'Yes,' Forge nods, 'Ororo is adamant that you can be trusted and she is also very,' the homme purses his lips, 'very much in favour of you staying here, but as I have said and I'm sure a man of your…..profession….can understand, we X-Men take our security very seriously.'

I don't laugh but it's real hard, 'a man of my profession' huh? Ah oui, mon frère, us thieves _real_ knowledgeable about security – and the breaking thereof. Still there's something he's not saying, something that not be making much sense to me.

'You been frank with me homme,' though if that be frank I'd hate to see what he's like when he's being vague, 'so now I ask you a question, oui?'

'Of course,' the man nods. I smirk as I pull out another cigarette. Mon dieu but I'm smoking double my usual number being around these folks; these X-Men going to be the death of me, I can feel it.

'If de X-Men be worried 'bout trusting me, homme, how you t'ink lettin' me see more of your secrets gon help?'

I'm figuring whatever this Danger Room be, (and oui, I heard some of the New Mutant kids and Jubilee talking about it and figure it's some kind of training room or something) it's going to be full of the same weird hi-tech stuff I seen a little bit of around the rest of the underground complex. It seems just plain wrong headed to me that the X-Men don't trust me so they going to show me, a thief for God's sake, all their best kept toys. I almost want to sit these people down and explain a few things to them about how the real world works, non?

Forge looks like he has had similar thoughts himself but is not going to admit it, 'Ororo trusts you, and it was felt that if you were made more aware of the purpose of the X-Men that…'

Mon dieu this cannot be happening; I don't want believe it but it seems like the man, he's trying to recruit me! Non, there's got to be another explanation, maybe he just wants me to sign some kinda contract on my life that I'll not divulge X-Men secrets ever to anyone….oui, that's probably it.

They can't be thinking of making me an X-Man, non, that idea is so laughable it's almost scary.

Once I have myself under control I give the man a tight smile, 'I'm not stayin' homme, I don' care 'bout de X-Men or your purpose,' I wave my hand to lessen the brunt of those words, no reason to be insulting, after all, 'I'm sure you do righteous t'ings, mon frère, but Gambit be a thief and happy to stay dat way; I'm here for my partner and no ot'er reason.'

'But Ororo is an X-man, she was one long before she became your….partner,' Forge manages to get the word out without sneering, though I think he struggles, 'Ororo will not be returning to work with you again, Gambit.'

I keep my smile and turn my head to blow a perfect smoke ring away from Forge, 'Mebbe she will mebbe she won', I came to return Stormy to her family an' I done dat, once I'm sure she's settled I'll be on my way.'

I give the man a nod and turn away, heading in the direction of the main gate. Forge don't try and stop me but I can feel his eyes on me as I leave. Mon Dieu, Gambit, how you go get yourself into these kinds of messes?

I make a mental note to put a long distance call through to NakNak, maybe she know how I gone get myself out of this train wreck, non?

* * *

It's late, I stayed away from Graymalkin Lane as long as I could but eventually figured I had to go back less Stormy pitch a fit (like she did that time couple days ago when I took up a femme's invitation for a lil' private slumber party).

I'm walking down one of the many narrow metal corridors in this place, not making a sound out of long habit more than design, when I hear voices, voices that say my name. Like a moth to a flame I drift towards the voices that are coming from the place they call the 'war room'. Usually I'm not allowed too near it but there's no-one about right now and one of them voices I can hear is my Stormy's; she don't sound happy neither.

'How many times must I say this? I trust Gambit, he has never been anything other than a true and loyal friend to me. I do not believe for a moment that he would be a risk to the X-Men.'

'So yer said darlin' and maybe the Cajun done right by yer, but there's something screwy about him, something wrong with his scent; he smells suspicious, an' guilty.' Logan's gruff growling voice grates on my nerves even with metal walls to muffle the sounds, 'Sorry 'Roro, but he don't smell like he wants t'be here an' he sets my instincts off, punk's trouble plain and simple, darlin'.'

'I cannot read his mind, beyond the most superficial of thoughts, at all. He has some of the most impressive psi-shields I have ever seen in a non-psi and his own mutant power seems to disrupt mental broadcasts.' An upper crust British voice: Psylocke. I tense in the shadows of the corridor, a thrill of fear going through me from head to toes; the telepath's been trying to read me?

'You should not be attempting to read his mind at all, Psylocke,' my Stormy again and she sound tres pissed; hear, hear Stormy. You tell that femme to keep her distance; my secrets are my own, oui?

'Ororo, yer cannot blame us fer bein' concerned, the boyo's a thief and con-man, by his own admission, and he told Forge he had no want ta join the X-Men.'

There's a long pause and I almost wish I could see through the walls to look at the faces of the folks inside that room, then Stormy starts speaking again.

'I understand your concern my friends, but I truly believe in my heart that Gambit can be an asset to this team and to the X-Men at large; please, be patient and you will see, I promise you. I have absolute faith in Gambit.'

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I back away from the room with all a thief's quiet and beat it down the corridor as fast as I can; mon dieu, Gambit, you in real trouble now!


	25. Chapter 25

**Part Twenty-Five: Evolution of a soul; Gambit by way of X**

_A/N: Special message and heartfelt thank you goes out to 'gwee', who left me a review for the whole of this story so far but without logging on so i could not reply; reviews are the life blood of any story and reviews like yours mean a very great deal to me personally, so once again thank you sincerely for the lovely, detailed review. PS: I'm glad you liked the 'sociopath' bit in chpt. 17, it's my favourite too; I also agree with you about the ambiguity of Gambit's character. It is what makes him interesting ;)_

_P.P.S: this thank you also extends to everyone reviewing and/or reading this story; though I do try when i can to reply to every review(er) individually._

_Spikey44_

* * *

'It's time Gambit.'

'Quoi, Cyclops?'

'Psylocke should've made her move by now. Which means it's your turn. You deliberately took that spike Hodge fired, figuring rightly, since he's the kind who'll never pass on an opportunity to do any of us harm, he'd leave it be.'

'Storm told me you were good.'

'She said the same of you, a thief par excellence.'

'So now I am to prove it, eh?'*

So, I suppose I should take the time to explain how I ended up in this newest mess, non? How it is that Gambit, thief of Nawlins, man with no past and not much of a future, end up imprisoned and accused of treason in Genosha with a bunch of mutant superheroes who are trying to overthrow a despotic dictatorship.

Hold on to your hats, this going to be a long story.

Firstly I should say that after I overhear my belle Stormy trying to persuade the X-Men to trust me I had decided that me and the jeune fille going to have to have a long talk about things; there's no way I was going let her suck me into no X-Men mess (haha – best laid plans of mice and thieves, eh, Gambit?).

I didn't get the chance to have that lil' talk though, as X-Factor come a calling for a reunion. Turns out they old school X-Men themselves and they want to reconnect with Stormy. D'accord I thought, I can wait, but then these Genoshan magistrates teleport onto the grounds outta nowhere and kidnap Stormy and the New Mutant kids while they hanging out by the lake.

That's the sort of thing that's going to bother a boy, having his partner snatched by a bunch of mutant hating foreigners, so I was plenty pissed and figured I needed to get my lil' partner back. It seemed fairly natural to tag along with Cable and the rest of the X-nuts under those circumstances.

Ah, oui, no one ever going to accuse Gambit of having a working brain, non? What made me think, even for a minute, that me and the X-Men have the same ideas about how to affect a prison break, eh?

Me, I'm thinking that I find out where they be holding my Stormy, break the fille out, and get gone – didn't particularly care what happen to the New Mutants, oui, it suck that they get snatched but I figured that's Cable's job to sort out, non?

The X-Men though, mon dieu, the X-Men got some funny ideas about how you rescue a body non? Instead of a quiet, stealthy infiltration and extraction they gone and started a full-scale war; they trying to overthrow a government! Oui, it be about as bad as a government can be, knew that before we even got here, but the idea that these people can just waltz in and change the whole political structure of an entire country….mon dieu, it's crazy.

Least ways that's what I was thinking until I see what the Genoshans gone and done to my partner. Turn my Stormy into a Mutate and you are going to pay, I don't care who you are, you still going to pay. As it turns out the homme (and I use the term loosely) behind all this be a body by the name of Hodge, don't know his story and I don't care neither. All I know is he some kinda freakish half metal, half man spider thing and he got a real hard on about crushing the X-Men.

I could live with that, figure the X-Men going to have them plenty of enemies, but I take exception when the homme include me and my partner as part of his personal vendetta. So, oui, that's why I'm now picking the locks on my manacles using my feet and the spike I took to my thigh, not too challenging a thing for me, but really, I'd sooner not be here at all, oui?

It's funny but it's really not that hard to fit in with these people. Okay, on a personal and philosophical level we really don't speak the same language but in terms of knock down drag out brawling, oui, I can do this.

The homme Cable, he reminds me too much of a G.I. Joe toy that's been hit by a landmine and got him some new metal limbs but he's the sort of man I'm used to dealing with; a killer who's not ashamed to get his hands dirty. I don't have to like the humourless, bad tempered homme, but I can work with him easy enough. In a strange way it reminds me of backing up Grey Crow on a consignment.

When Cable made his move against Hodge I could see it before he did it, acted like we planned it because it was all so familiar to me, grabbing the gun from that femme in the magistrate's uniform when she try to punch laser fire holes through Cable. Oui, I figure we'd not manage to make a break for it, but for some reason it never occurred to me to just let the other man get capped.

It was the most natural thing in the world to tackle Cable before he could get turned into a human pin-cushion by Hodge's spikes and oui, I figured the spike I took in the leg would come in handy maybe, but that's not why I did it. I'd sooner not deliberately take a flesh wound if I can help it, no matter what _mon Capitan_ Cyclops say.

Speaking of this Cyclops homme, he's……_different_ from the usual psychos and soldiers for hire that I've tangled with in the past but I have to admit he knows what he's about; got a natural affinity for giving orders and taking charge in a fire-fight and although I'm not sure how inclined I am to listen to them orders so far I've not heard him say anything I've not seen the sense of.

'Voila mes braves,' I declare as my manacles pop open (only took me thirty-two seconds too, not bad seeing as it's been a while since I had to unlock something with my feet), 'beat _dat_ Stormy,'* I add just for the hell of it.

I catch the looks the big blue furry homme and Banshee exchange as I get to my feet and pull free the spike to start freeing the others and can't help but feel just a little smug; oui, mes compeers, the boy got serious _skillz_, non?

So while I'm letting loose the rest of my temporary comrades Cyclops and his woman, Jean Grey, are having some kinda conversation about what's going on elsewhere in this prison come citadel.

Apparently Hodge has a real dislike for one of the X-Factor bodies they calling Archangel, now he's an odd looking mutant and no mistake, got him skin as blue as a summer sky and these lethal looking metal wings. The homme also got an attitude that makes Wolverine seem bearable, but that's not really an issue.

Speaking of Wolverine, he's currently involved in a less than friendly tussle with the uptight Angel and he's not looking so good; strange that they so ready to take it to one another when they supposed to be playing for the same team. Still no matter, it's not like teammates have to like each other I suppose.

Cyclops is giving orders again, and it's strange but I find myself listening to what he's got to say, accepting orders from a man I don't know and have no reason to obey. I tell myself it's because there's safety in numbers and I know my limits; I'm not going to be able to get me and Stormy out of this mess without help. I tell myself I'm only playing at being an X-Man because of necessity and because I owe my loyalty to Stormy.

I tell myself a lot of things while the X-Men hand Hodge his head (literally) and liberate a whole nation from an insane tyrant and the worst sort of slavery, the funny thing is, I don't believe a word of what I'm saying.

* * *

'I go or stay as I please m'sieu Serval; ain't found a door yet stayed closed to me, if I wanted in, or a body could _stop_ me.' **

I go cartwheeling over this holographic, make believe, whatever simulation that seems almost more real than real life with Wolverine haring after me, and truth be told I'm feeling pretty fine.

After the whole Genosha thing it didn't make much sense to keep protesting that I'm not an X-Men and I'm only a guest so I agreed when Wolverine, of all people, suggest him and me have a session in the Danger Room (so sue me, I was curious to test the stuff out).

What I neglected to tell my hairy sparing partner is that while I've never used the Danger Room before I'd already hacked the system and learned how to mess with some of the sequencers and stuff. I have a little surprise for monsieur Logan…..checked some of his programmes and found he likes to fight some weird looking femme of the name Lady Deathstryke, figure he going to be tres thrilled when she makes an unexpected appearance in our session, non?

So what? I'm not going to apologise. Logan wants to test my moves, try and gauge how I fight, d'accord, but he's going to have to learn that Gambit always has an ace up his sleeve.

It's not like I've ever seen the sense in a fair fight, after all. Plus what is fair about a fight with a man that can heal almost any wound and has six, foot long, metal claws that can cut through steel and the attitude of a pissed off psychopath, I ask you?

Sure I'm going to cheat, it's just common sense.

Things have been a petite odd recently. I had to deal with my own stuff for a day or two; the thing in Genosha gave me pause. It kinda hit me hard when I come down from the post fight high, the idea that a bunch of mutants could liberate a whole country and rescue thousands of other mutants from having their personalities erased and being turned into nameless slaves; that's not the sort of thing I used to think was possible. I never would have thought that I could be a part of something like that either –least ways not by fighting on the right side, at any rate.

I don't know how to explain how I felt when I realised what I'd done, that I fought alongside a bunch of strangers whose only connection to me was funky genes and a friend in common. I didn't know how to handle the fact that it felt good. I promised myself after the Morlocks and Sinister that I'd never work with any group of mutants ever again - and then I went and did just that.

I put in a call to NakNak as soon as I felt it safe. She already knew about the whole thing (apparently the X-Men made the news all over the world – even lowtown Madripoor). I told her I'd scared myself and she said: 'good'.

'Are you out of your comfort zone, Lebeau? Don't know what you are doing? Acting against your nature?'

'Oui.'

'Good, keep it up. That was the whole point remember, stupid thief?'

So, basically NakNak not a whole lot of help and Stormy, mon dieu, Stormy's worse than useless.

I don't know how it happened and I think if I did I'd do something to fix it right quick, but somehow when she was freed from the mutate thing and had her woman body back she ended up with the biggest stick up her ass you ever did see. I could almost have cried to see my spunky, feisty jeune belle turn into a woman that don't know how to crack a smile to save her life.

She was too serious when she was a jeune fille, now she's like a mourner looking for a funeral, what with all her talk of responsibility and the like. Soon as I'm done teaching monsieur Logan a lesson I'm going to have to have words with Stormy, there some things a partner just not going to tolerate, oui?

First things first though, I have something that needs saying to my sparing partner; hopefully I'll only have to say it the once, non?

With my bo-staff wedged under the homme's chin and my foot planted on his chest I grin down at Wolverine, knowing that his little fille be watching up above in the control room.

'For the record though, just to make this official: bang you _dead_.' **

I lean a little more of my weight down on his chest and meet his angry, pained eyes for a moment, triumph in my own. This ought to learn him not to mess with me, non? Once I think I've made my point I release the old man and turn on my heel, don't even care that I'm giving him my back. I got me more important things to do than wipe the floor with over the hill half-pint Creed wannabes, after all.

Still, I'm grinning real wide as I head off for a shower and change of clothes before I go looking for my Stormy.

* * *

It be official Gambit boy, just in case you not caught a clue yet, you are totally and completely out of your depth. You're in outer space; you're in another freaking galaxy. This is so far out of your comfort zone, Gambit, that's it not even funny any more.

Outer space….how did this even happen?

I keep asking myself that question as I'm plodding through this alien (yep, keep saying it boy and you might start to believe this is real) city looking for……I dunno what I'm looking for but I'm not coping too well and don't want Stormy or any of the X-Men to see that suave, mysterious, unflappable Gambit be well and truly shitting himself about all this.

Another fucking Galaxy; I didn't even know that was possible. I barely know which order the planets of my own solar system are in let alone understand how I be in another solar system altogether, light years from home. If I ever get home I'm never going to be able to watch Star Trek without shuddering ever again: aliens; I ask you, how did this happen to me?

I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I almost miss the petite, Jubilee, hiding in some kinda ventilation shaft or something looking real intently at something going on through the grate. Jubilee's a familiar sight so I come up behind her. We can be two peas in a pod, both of us with no clue what's going on and too proud to admit we're not happy about it.

'(Hsst) wha'chu doin' chere?' ***

I'm vaguely gratified that Jubilee's well and truly freaked out by all this too, still I have to slap a hand over her mouth and hold her pinned until she calms down in case she alerts a bunch of aliens to the fact that we're spying on them; who knows maybe they eat us or implant eggs in our guts – figure there's got to be an alien that does that somewhere in the universe, non?

'Quit'cher strugglin' hear, you wan' tell the whole world we be hidin' here? Jubilee! C'est moi Gambit!' ***

Once the petite quits struggling me and her settle in to watch what's going on below. Seems to me that femme with the wings who's responsible for bringing us all into outer space (what's her name again - ah, oui, Deathbird) is getting her just desserts – still there seems like there's something not right about this set up…..something about the homme with the cloak and helmet giving the orders seems familiar, and creepy.

Me and the petite watch and I have to admit, aside from the fact that these people are all strangers and aliens and whathaveyou, I don't like what I'm seeing or hearing one bit.

I get this feeling, like a burning in my gut, as I watch Deathbird get dragged up before the man in the helmet; a feeling like déjà vu but not. Deathbird, she's struggling but she's outgunned and out-matched, being dragged before the man in the helmet like a prisoner before the executioner.

I don't like this at all, got no love for the femme sure, but something in me rebels at the sight of anyone being treated like they treating the femme.

The sound of Gladiator, or whatever they call the homme with the purple Mohawk, breaking and tearing Deathbird's wings apart, the wet snapping sound of her bones…..mon dieu, but I remember the tunnels, the sound of bodies being shredded by blades and claws and bullets as I run like hell to escape the horror I created.

It's like everything crystallises into a perfect moment of clarity then; I stop worrying about the fact that I don't understand any of what is happening or who these people are or why they doing what they doing. None of that matters. It don't matter that I'm in outer space and in another Galaxy. It don't matter that Deathbird be an enemy to the X-Men or that I have no business wearing X-Men colours in the first place (only put them on to cheer up Stormy after all –yellow is so not my colour).

Non, all that matters, right here, right now, is the sounds of pain and hurt and the fact that Deathbird has gone and bit through her own bottom lip so she don't give her tormentors the satisfaction of hearing her scream. All that matters, in this entire universe or _any_ universe is that once again I'm in a position of watching someone being hurt, tortured, and this time I can do something about it. This time I can decide if I'm going to stand by and let a body get hurt like that.

'Gambit!' Jubilee screeches and it's only then that I realise, for better or worse, I've made my decision. 'Geez lou-_eez, _man, what're you_ doing!' _***

The grate goes flying as I kick it out and I'm uncoiling out of the shaft, a brace of cards flying through the air towards Gladiator and the homme with the helmet and cloak who sounds an awful lot like the X-Men's precious professeur, before I even hit the ground.

'Apologies Jubilee, I guess when you wear the uniform of a _hero...._hey I guess sometime you got to act the part.' ***

And that's all there is to it in the end, and I finally get it. I finally get what NakNak's been trying to tell me and what Stormy meant all along. I get it now. It's not about being righteous or being a 'good man'………all that really matters is that you don't stand by and let the _bad_ guys win.

So let the good times roll, mes braves. Here I be, and this time I'm fighting back.

* * *

_A/N: * - dialogue taken from X-Men X-tinction Agenda (I think? – it's the story arc involving New Mutants/Uncanny X-men/ X-Factor where they go to Genosha and kick-ass)_

_** -dialogue from Uncanny X-men, I can't remember the exact number (I got it from a compendium of Jim Lee greatest issues) but it's something around Uncanny 270/271 or something. The scene is pretty famous: Gambit kicks Wolverine's ass in the Danger Room (yay!)._

_*** -again can't place the exact issue of Uncanny the dialogue comes from but it's part of the Shi-ar/shapeshifting Scrulls/evil aliens/lets go rescue Xavier in deep space free-for-all arc from the early nineties. _


	26. Chapter 26

**Part Twenty-Six: The Perils of a Catholic Conscience and Small Spot of Extortion**

So…..

Mon dieu, where to begin, non? It's been an interesting couple weeks, that's for damn sure. Genosha, far distant reaches of a galaxy far, far away, a small island off the northern coast of Scotland. Oui, it's been a strange time and no mistake.

Shit, but I just can't get my brain to work right; thoughts skittering around in this old skull fast enough to hurt. It's just too much, but not completely in a bad way (and that's what scares the hell outta me). The bottom line is I'm still here at the X-maison, cheek by jowl with a group of people who I happen to think are completely fucking insane and to top it all I'm making no effort whatsoever to get gone.

I have no idea why.

My house of cards is holding up pretty good as it towers over the bedside table. My hand's steady as I place the Queen of Hearts on top of the stack to create the base for another precarious layer, and oui, don't nobody need to point out the symbolism of the act because I am way ahead of you.

I suppose I should begin by explaining a few things, eh?

We……I mean _the X-men_, managed to sort out their messes in the end. First with those shape-shifting aliens and then with the Shadowking on Muir Island; I can't help but smile about that, it be good to know my Stormy be free of the homme for good, non? She don't need to have the fear of that mind stealing fucker hanging over her no more.

Of course it didn't turn out so good for yours truly, but I've been playing with a bad hand all my live long life so that don't bother me. Non, actually that's a god damn lie, I'm not dealing, but being mind-fucked by the Shadowking is still not a patch on Sinister and his lab.

I'm just going to have to cope with the fact that all the bad shit I'm trying to pretend don't exist in me anymore is not buried as deep as I wanted it to be and not likely to ever go away completely no matter what I want.

C'est la vie; it's not like I don't know I'm a fucked up, nasty piece of shit to begin with, oui? The important thing is making sure no one else works that out.

Mon dieu, but I never thought I could hit a child. Sweet God but I can't barely look at Jubilee without remembering that I struck her…..and I don't care what any of these X-men believe about the Shadow-homme bringing up the worst in a body's nature and all that crap. Non, I hit the petite because she was seriously pissing me off and because she was a safer target than striking out at the mangy Canuck.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath; this is getting intense and I know my fingers have gone and started glowing as I get messed up in my head again. Just when I think I've got a handle on the worst in me and start reaching for the best this happens and I feel like I'm back at square one. It's like someone up above (or down below) really enjoys messing with this poor bayou boy, non?

My hand trembles for just a moment as I try to place the joker on top of my newest layer. The whole tower of cards shivers and I lift my hand away, concentrating on forcing the tremor out of my hand and swallowing down this newest bite of evil.

I guess it's only a small thing really, eh? And it's not like the petite seem to care even. I mean in the grand scheme of all the evil in me smacking a kid 'cause _she just won't shut her trap for five seconds flat _is barely a ripple on the surface, oui?

I hired killers and opened the flood gates for wholesale slaughter. I used to hunt people down for crimes that be the same as my own and lead them into a cold blooded killer's trap. I used to destroy businesses and livelihoods and con people into aiding and abetting in my crimes. What is one act of aggression against a child, (aggression while under the influence of an evil psychic entity no less) compared to that, eh?

The house of cards falls down because I knock it down. Knock the whole damn edifice down with a flick of my finger; cards fall all over. The Ace of Spades and the Suicide King and the Queen of Hearts fall onto the counter-pane of the bed in the room I've been assigned here in the X-men stronghold. For the longest time I just look at them; what a strange mix, non?

I don't know what to do now; that little epiphany in deep space didn't do shit to make things any easier. I still don't know what I'm really doing here, or what I even want to do, and I'm still scared that there be too much poison in me to ever bleed out. I can't bring myself to call Nak Nak because then I got to tell her I hit a child. I had never hit a child in my life, never dreamed it even, and then I went and did it.

How is it possible that I seem to be getting worse and not better? Or does it just feel like that because for the first time ever I actually give a damn if my actions hurt somebody?

Gathering up the cards I shuffle the deck absently and then split the pack roughly before stuffing half the cards in one pocket of my trench and the other half in the other pocket. Armed and ready to face the denizens of X I leave my room; I need a smoke.

I'm drifting down the corridor from the elevator that took me up to the ground level (the X-men still cramming into the sub-basement, though with Professeur Xavier back the mansion is now in the process of being re-built – glory hallelujah) headed for the cold night outside when the voice stops me.

'Gambit!'

I pivot smoothly on my heel and stop the automatic reach for the cards in my pockets that my right hand tries to make. It's my own damn fault for picking a new name that sounds like a curse, that's all. That and the fact that mon Capitan Cyclops has the social skills of an army drill instructor who hasn't gotten laid in a decade.

'Oui, monsieur?'

I smirk at the man, twiddling a cigarette between my fingers. As far as I can tell there be no anti-smoking rule (despite M'sieur Bete's heckling) but as only me and the chevalier Logan indulge I'm trying to be courteous and only smoke on the grounds and not the sub-basement (the ventilation not so good down there anyway).

'What are you doing and where have you been all day?'

Cyclops asks me, and oui, I know the man's given name but as he seems to like to walk around all the God given day in a skin-tight blue bodysuit with a big white cross on it I can't bring myself to call him 'Scott'. Plus me and him be strangers and it's not polite to use a body's name without permission, non?

'Quoi?' I ask in response to what didn't sound like a particularly polite question.

It seems to moi, that it should be blatantly obvious what I'm doing anyway; I'm standing here waiting for the homme to tell me what he wants so I can pretend to listen and then get on with my smoke, comprende-vous?

Cyclops walks up to me from the direction of the half finished dining room (least I think that the room meant to be a dining room).

'I thought you had left the grounds, Gambit. You haven't been answering your comm.' The man frowns, I can just see the dip of his brows as they plunge below the line of his visor.

I stare at the homme. My comm.? What the hell is he talking……oh, shit! Almost guiltily I remember the communication device Stormy gave me the other day, the disk shaped badge with the red X emblazoned on it; the thing I took apart because I was curious how it worked and never bothered to re-assemble.

Oooops.

Meeting Cyclops less than amused regard I shrug one shoulder casually, 'I been 'ere de whole time mon ami, anyone knock on de door I woulda answered.'

Possibly, unless it was Wolverine, Jubilee, Banshee, Forge……well never mind, the principle of the thing is sound.

Cyclops does not look like he likes that answer too much. Though I admit it's a petit hard to read the man's expressions with the visor covering his eyes.

'Where is the comm. badge, Gambit? Storm told me she had issued you with one.'

Cyclops folds his arms across his chest and behind him I notice that Stormy is standing in the archway of the half finished dining room doorway, watching me with a slightly reproachful look. I can hear Jubilee giggling, hidden behind the partition wall.

'In the room I be stayin' in, mon ami.'

I answer, which is nothing less than the truth. Nobody needs to know it be in seventeen different pieces and I'm a petit bit uncertain I can put it back together again. Mon dieu, I didn't know Stormy gave it to me for real! I just thought she gave me a dud or something I could play with because I admitted to her I was curious about them. Shit; bet I'll have to pay for the damages now.

Cyclops still has his arms folded across his chest and this look of vaguely constipated annoyance on his face, 'Gambit comm. badges are supposed to be kept turned on at all times and kept with you.' He looks at me like I'm in some way mentally deficient and I bristle, 'Surely you can appreciate the need to remain in constant communication contact?'

Non, actually I don't understand that. Especially when, in the first case, I'm not a member of his merry squad of mentally impaired mutant altruists, and two, I been in my room the whole damn time!

I cock my head to the side and fold my arms across my chest in deliberate mimicry of his stance. I'm a guest in this half-built house, and a guest of tenuous standing, mais oui, but I'm not going to be patronised by a man in full body Lycra and a bright shiny yellow visor on his head. A man has his pride, oui?

'I been in dis house, such as it is,' I add with a raised eyebrow gesturing to the half-finished surroundings, 'de whole day, mon ami. All anybody had to do was knock on de damn door to find dat out.' I point out with exaggerated patience.

Jubilee is going to make herself sick, least that's what it sounds like from all the pants and wheezing I can hear from the other room as the petite try to contain her laughter. Stormy is watching me and Cyclops like she's expecting to have to leap between us at any moment. Cyclops purses his lips and they are white and bloodless.

'If you've been in the house all day why haven't you been up here helping with the renovations?' he asks obviously trying tres, tres hard not to snap at me like I'm some ill-behaved teenager.

I appreciate the restraint but not as much as he should. He be flat on his ass with a broken jaw if he try to lecture me, and that is no lie.

It's funny, I didn't have a problem with the homme barking out commands in Genosha, even listened to them, but the man got to learn the right time and place to be playing tin-pot general, non? Else wise me and him are going to have a pretty serious altercation sooner or later.

I blink as that last thought registers in my head. Why would this anal-retentive control freak and moi be having words, I wonder? I'm acting like I'm planning on staying on here; which I'm not, of course. I'm just staying until Stormy's settled. Then again, she looks pretty settled already and I'm not leaving so……

…….oh _fuck_ it, shut up brain. Just shut up because we be going round in circles and getting nowhere. There is more than enough trouble to deal with already, Gambit. Namely the man in front of me, who looks about ready to zap me with one of his eye beams right through the wall.

'Gambit are you even listening to me?' Cyclops demands snapping my wandering thoughts back into order.

Oh bravo, Gambit, well done boy; I piss the man off, knowing he be dangerous and then I'm stupid enough not to pay attention. Anyone would think I had a death wish or something.

'Oui, Cyclops I 'eard you,' I lie casually, 'I did not know my assistance be required, no?' I smile faintly hoping to placate the man, 'Had I known I woulda come up sooner, d'accord?'

Cyclops watches me for a long moment (or at least I'm guessing he's watching me – with the visor it's hard to tell, non?) and then he let's the tension out of his shoulders, uncrossing his arms with a curt nod. I'll give the man that much, he's smart enough to know a losing battle when he sees one. Yelling at me is no way to get me to help with the plastering, n'est pas?

'Fine Gambit.' He grates out, though it clearly pains him dearly. Sadly I don't find myself feeling too sympathetic towards his plight however; funny that.

He sighs gathering himself, 'Now you _are_ here you can help in the dining room,' his attention sharpens and I think for a moment I catch a flash of ruby red heat behind the visor, 'unless you have something more pressing to attend too?'

Cyclops asks archly and for a moment I am damned tempted to take that bait just to piss the man off as he is really getting on my nerves now. That tone of his voice is getting to me and if he's not real careful I'm going to kick the man in the balls, and screw the chain of command.

In fact why not just do it now, while the element of surprise is on my side, eh? I catch a glimpse of the look Stormy be giving me from behind Cyclops back and decide it's not worth it.

I'm pretty confident I can take down _Mon Capitan_, so long as I hit him hard and fast before he can use them eyes of his, but Stormy, mon dieu, ma belle Stormy fry me alive.

So, putting aside the tres appealing prospect of making sure Monsieur Summers never going to be breeding any lil' Summerses in this lifetime I nod to the man and brush by him into the half-done dining room.

I really don't understand myself no more; I didn't take this crap from Grey Crow, why the hell am I taking it from a stranger I don't much like?

Walking into the dining room I see the Petite grinning at me all red faced and bright eyed from laughter and despite feeling guilty every time I look at the fille now I can't help but feel a smirk curving over my lips in reply (oui I have the emotional maturity of a thirteen year old, but at least I'm man enough to admit it, eh?).

Stormy drifts over beside me and tugs me across the room to where she's been working on the wallpapering.

'You are a man who loves to live dangerously, my friend.'

Stormy shakes her head, turning away just a little trying to hide the smile on her face, but I know it's there no matter how hard she tries to act like she disapproves.

'One day you will find yourself in more trouble than you can talk your way out of.' She murmurs in my ear as she dumps a roller into my hands and directs me to start pasting the walls.

I grin at her, aware of the other people in the room watching me, 'Non Stormy, never happen yet and it never gon happen. I can talk my way outta anyt'ing me.'

'What _did_ you do to the comm. unit I gave you?'

She eventually asks me as the attention of Banshee, the femme Moira Mactaggart, Forge and Jean Grey goes back to their own business and not me and mine. I wince at the question and don't control it fast enough; Stormy sees and frowns at me.

'Gambit?'

I avoid her eyes, shrugging awkwardly, 'I'll put it back together Stormy, be good as new.'

Stormy closes her eyes and shakes her head slowly but all she says to me is, 'Do not call me that.'

'D'accord,' I give in for now. If Stormy's prepared to keep the secret about my act of unconscious vandalism I will try to remember not to call her Stormy…..at least until I can repair the stupid thing anyhow.

Behind our backs the petite Jubilee giggles; I knew she had been sneaking up on us (or trying to at least) and I think Stormy knew too. I turn to look over my shoulder at the fille.

'Something funny p'tite?' I raise an eyebrow.

'Oh yeah,' Jubilee pops her gum loudly. 'I'm just trying to imagine Cyke's face when I tell him you broke your comm. badge, Gumbo; your ass is grass.'

She grins at me like a lil' devil but keeps her voice down; the fille knows that a secret is only good for blackmail so long as no one hears it first.

I roll my eyes as beside me Stormy bristles, 'Jubilee that is….'

I wave my hand to stop Stormy from making the situation worse by getting mad. I'm watching the wicked glint in the Petite's eyes the whole time. I don't give a damn really if she runs and tells Captain Uptight that I broke his toy, but I owe this fille for what I did to her on Muir lsland.

I would never have thought I could strike out at a child and I'm mad enough at myself about that that if the kid wants to blackmail me I'll let her – hell, it's a good skill to learn, non?

'What dis gon cost me, p'tite?' I ask mildly.

Jubilee's grinning real wide now, like the Cheshire Cat or something. Sometimes I think me and this fille got far too much in common. 'An IOU, Cajun. One I can cash in at anytime.'

I cock my head to the side and feel my smirk broaden. Oui, I like this petite fille; she's fun. Stormy looks between me and Jubilee and narrows her eyes at me before trying to appeal to the Petite's sense of right and wrong (she knows I be a lost cause there, after all).

'Jubilee blackmail is wrong.' She says softly but her heart is not really in it.

'Oui, but it's tres effective,' I say before the Petite can think of a come back.

I know that the rest of the room is starting to get curious again now and I don't want Jubilee's scam ruined before she can make good on it. As a con man myself I know how much it sucks when a swindle falls through.

I look at the fille before me and nod with mock solemnity, 'D'accord p'tite, I give you a favour, but it got to be b'tween us; tell anyone and de deal is off, agreed?'

I offer my hand as is fitting for this sort of thing. Jubilee is beaming, real happy with herself, and the tight pinch of guilt that I've been carrying around with me since Muir Island relaxes from my shoulders.

Jubilee reaches for my hand and we shake; the Petite's not used to it and her small hand is tentative in mine. I grin into her eyes as I give into a lil' bit of temptation and raise her captured hand to my lips just briefly.

'A pleasure doing business wit' you, Mademoiselle Jubilation.' The fille goes bright red before pulling her hand away and I let her scuttle off (don't want the psycho midget thinking I'm after his chippy, non?).

Satisfied that I've settled the guilt debt between me and the fille Jubilee, and made the lil' femme blush real nice, I turn back to my wall paper duties. Stormy clucks her tongue at me with indulgent humour in her eyes.

'You may find yourself paying a very steep price for this my friend, far worse than any censure Scott could devise.'

I chuckle lightly, aware of the faintly suspicious and avid curiosity of the other X-men at my back like pins and needles down my spine.

'I like the p'tite,' I shrug speaking softly because I'm not interested in sharing my business with a bunch of folks too rude to just damn well ask, 'Not like I be stayin' around long enough to let the fille collect on the debt anyway, non?'

Stormy glances at me amused, but I think I see just a hint of concern in her eyes for a moment too, 'So you say, my friend, so you say.'

I smile at her, 'Oui Stormy, so I say.'


	27. Chapter 27

**Part Twenty-Seven: An Interview with the Boss**

I jerk awake out of a strange dream that is not exactly a nightmare (there be no Essex, no lab, no screams of terror and pain) but what scraps of memory I have of it as my eyes snap open are lost instantly.

I stare up at the darkness and my heart is hammering real loudly in my ears, nerves twitching with adrenaline because every thief instinct in my body is screaming to me that someone just woke me; I'm not alone in here.

I listen real hard and lie still for a few seconds but eventually have to conclude that there is no one in the room with me. Not now, least ways. I sit up in bed and brush my hair from my face.

The darkness of the underground room doesn't faze me none; I see just fine in the night, don't need that much light me. Still the creepy-crawly feeling like I'm being watched from the shadows is something I could do without, oui? It's not paranoia when they really are out to get you, and I know well enough that someone somewhere is bound to have a beef with me for something. Someone always does.

Knowing that I'm not going to get any sleep for a while, too hyped from the dream or whatever it is, I pull on jeans and a t-shirt and my trench coat and decide to go for a lil' late night stroll.

_Gambit…._

I rock to a halt on my heels as another body's thoughts push against my brain. I can feel him, and I don't like it. Looking around me at the quiet solitude of the half-built ground floor of the mansion I see the thin band of light peeking underneath the gap between the doorway leading to Professeur Xavier's study and the floor.

I narrow my eyes. So it's time is it? The owner of the maison going to give me my walking orders is he?

D'accord, I've been wondering why he's waited so long. Lord knows I wouldn't want a man like me in my mansion (half-built or not) if I was the Professeur either. Still I don't much appreciate the man trying to breach my shields while I'm sleeping. That is no way to treat a guest, non? Maybe someone should teach the man some manners? I stride towards the study (which, out of all the mansion, was the first suite to be properly rebuilt).

I rap my knuckles on the door frame (the door's just been varnished – I know because I was the body that did it).

'Enter.' The deep baritone voice calls and I have to admit the man got him a good voice. I push open the door and stroll in with all the stylish nonchalance I can manage.

'Bon nuit Professeur Xavier,' I say cheerfully as I casually close the door behind me and let my eyes adjust to the low lighting in the room. 'I 'ad de funny feelin' you might want to speak wit' me 'bout somet'ing, non?'

I smile at the man as I look over his freshly finished study with its paisley brocade wallpaper and polished mahogany furnishings. The bookcases are numerous and reach the ceiling from the floor and the carpet is so thick and soft it's like walking over a really absorbent sponge to reach the man behind his desk. The desk is also huge, shiny and expensive.

The whole effect makes me think that _Mon Professeur_ is over compensating for something, non?

Xavier is bald as a bebe's behind and his eyebrows are high, arched and thin. They're like exclamation marks that shoot up his forehead at my address but then his blue eyes settle into acceptance as he realises I caught him trying to poke at my brain while I be sleeping.

'Indeed Gambit. I had thought to speak with you in the morning but as you are up….'

He trails off and gestures to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. I slide into the leather upholstered seat with my usual élan and settle myself at my own pace before steepling my fingers in a copy of his pose.

'What do you wish to talk about, monsieur?' I ask politely, stretching my legs out until my booted feet brush against the solid back of the desk and I cross my ankles.

'You,' Xavier replies calmly his periwinkle blue eyes fixed steadily on me.

I keep the faintly bored smirk on my face even as a jolt of fear trickles through me. This man is supposed to be good. Non, he is suppose to be the _best_ damn telepath in the world. Does he know? Has he found me out already?

Because I've faced down Creed and Sinister in worse situations than this one I simply let my smile grow a little broader and settle a little more comfortably in the chair.

'I'm not dat int'restin' a topic of conversation mon ami; merci anyway t'ough.' I drawl.

Xavier's eyebrows do a little dance; twitching like over excited caterpillars over his smooth brow, but other than that the man's poker face doesn't waver. 'Indeed? I beg to differ. You are new to the X-Men; I like to get to know all my students.'

I blink, surprised out of my carefully studied nonchalance, 'Student?'

'Yes this is a school, all the people here are my students.'

Realising that I could lose control of this situation pretty quick I rally the troops, 'Dat so? I din't t'ink mutant insurgency could be taught in schools.' I give the man a sly smile deliberately thickening my accent, 'Learn somet'ing new ev'ryday I guess.'

'You think that is what the X-men are; insurgents?'

Xavier almost seems to smile and I begin to realise my mistake. I shoulda never used a word like 'insurgent' with this homme. Most of the X-folks seem to think I'm stupid, thieving white trash and it is better for me if they all keep thinking that way.

I shrug to cover my unease, putting into the gesture just enough jackass indifference that I know I've hit the mark when the man's eyebrows start bopping about on his head again. Just to add the cherry to the top I give the homme a flash of my most inane grin (the one that's been known to drive Sinister himself to distraction).

'Don't have opinions, me, one way or t'other.'

'Unless someone pays you to?' This time Xavier is smiling, though there is very little amusement in those eyes of his.

I give the man a blank look in response. On the mantle above the fireplace the ornate carriage clock ticks off the seconds. It's the only sound in the room for about a minute and the sound is eerie as all get out.

'Je regrette but I don t'ink I'm followin' you, m'sieur.' I say finally, twisting my features into the perfect mask of uneducated southern red-neck confusion.

Xavier nods his head tapping his fingers together, 'Very well, if that is how you wish to proceed.' The homme's eyebrows re-arrange themselves again and it's got to be one of the weirdness little ticks I've ever seen. Xavier's eyebrows have got them a life of their own; they're almost scary.

'Your psi shields are quite impressive by the way.' The homme says out of nowhere as I'm captivated by his energetic eyebrows.

I incline my head with a smile. 'Merci monsieur; from you I take dat as a compliment indeed.'

I've played too many cons to be caught out by the old trick of rapidly changing the subject of conversation to keep the mark off balance. In fact, this whole 'interrogation' could be quite fun. I haven't played this game in a long time, after all.

'You are not a telepath,' Xavier says with certainty and I don't bother to say anything in response because, well, he's right so what's the point? 'However there is something about the nature of your shielding which is mutagenic instead of a taught technique. Are you a psi?'

My own eyebrows almost bounce straight into orbit as I bite down on a laugh, 'Not even close.' I say when I'm confident I can speak without laughing. At Xavier's mildly curious look I decide to give him a little more.

'Non monsieur, no mind reading from moi; you wan' somet'ing blown up you come to me,' I shrug casually and smirk at the man, 'anyt'ing else you gon have to look elsewhere.'

'And if I required something stolen?'

I smile again but this time only on the inside; I knew my profession would come up sooner or later in this lil' late night chat, after all. I really wish Stormy hadn't gone and told everybody in this house I be a thief. Mon dieu sometimes that femme got no sense whatsoever.

'Stealing is wrong, monsieur.' I slouch comfortably down in the chair and lace my fingers together over my stomach; my poker face a pleasant mask.

'You have intimated to more than one resident of this house that you are a professional thief.' Xavier points out casually.

I wink at him, 'I say a lot of t'ings me, don mean it's true.'

'Ororo has told me that you and she worked together along the Gulf Coast. She can provide me with the names of your – targets.'

I watch the man who is watching me and I know he's trying to read me. I also know he can't because if I can _feel_ it he's already failed; thank you NakNak.

'Mebbe Stormy can, mebbe she can't.' I shrug again, shoulders brushing against the upholstery building up a lil' static charge against the back of the chair, 'Mebbe she even tellin' you true but _I_ tell you now, monsieur, you won't find a single police report about any t'eft from any place along de Gulf Coast dat match what she might tell you.'

That be one of many advantages about stealing from crooks; they're not that likely to file a police report, oui?

I grin at this man before me, knowing that to him I'm a closed book, and knowing equally well that the homme is not at all sure he even wants to read me; although maybe that's not true? Maybe this homme don't see my profession as a bad thing; that could make things interesting.

I cock my head to the side and tell the man straight just to see how reacts, 'You won't find anyone to tell you dat dere be a t'ief callin' his self 'Gambit' neither.'

Xavier smiles, 'I know. I have already checked with my sources. Even among the underground 'Gambit' is considered more myth than man.' He steeples his fingers again, looking pleased, if I'm any judge. 'I should imagine that the police do not even have your fingerprints on file; correct?'

I give the man a long blink before opening my eyes real wide (I've been practicing my wounded innocent look – now's a good time to try it out, oui?), '_Monsieur_ de police only keep de prints of convicted criminals, and as I'm not one, they not need to ever take my prints, oui?'

Xavier nods, still looking oddly pleased. 'Good. As you can no doubt understand, as one law abiding citizen to another Gambit, I try to keep my school's activities out of the authorities' line of sight.' He gives me a look of sky blue intensity. 'Mutant hysteria being what it is, you understand?'

I smile at the man with earnest eyes, 'Mais oui, Mon Professeur. I unnastan' completely, mutant hysteria be a real problem in any teaching establishment, non?'

'Quite.' Xavier studies me, 'You possess heightened agility and produce some manner of biokinetic charge I take it?'

'Dat's what your docteur McCoy be tellin' me, oui. Me I jus' know I blow stuff up by touchin' it and can jump real well,' I give him a quick grin and another lazy shrug, 'dat be good enough for me, non?'

'And you can control this power completely?'

I keep my lazy smile perfectly in place despite the shiver of dark memories pushing at my thoughts, 'I do now, monsieur.'

'Excellent.' Xavier nods again. 'I understand that you are unsure of your future movements, Gambit?'

'My movements monsieur?' I don't need to fake puzzlement this time.

'Ororo tells me that you do not plan to stay at my school?'

I shrug back on safe conversational ground once more, 'I'm not de academic sort Professeur. Plus it seem to me you got all de _students_ you be needin', no?'

'I am always on the look out for young people interested in furthering their education and enriching their lives with the other _non_-academic pursuits my school offers.' Xavier explains in a voice as smooth as butter and I can't help it, I laugh.

'Mon dieu monsieur. You ever t'ink of gon int' politics?'

'It has been suggested I would be good at it, yes.' Xavier tells me, a slight smile playing over his otherwise smooth face. This homme is good; oui, this homme is very good. I shake my head, still smiling, and raise my hands, palms up in mock surrender.

'D'accord Mon Professeur, alright; I know when to fold against a better player, eh?' I look at the homme for a moment and realise I kinda like the man. He's got a fair bit of the con man in him and no mistake.

In response to my surrender in our little bullshitting competition Xavier merely let's his free-roaming eyebrows speak for him. I give the man a mock salute and settle into my chair.

'Stormy tell you right; I'm not plannin' on stayin' t'ough I admit I stayed on 'ere longer den I intended to already.' I shrug, 'T'ings happen like dat oui? Bein' 'ported int' outta space for a spell kinda threw my schedule out a lil''

'Indeed. I had been meaning to thank you for your assistance regarding the situation with the Shi-ar and the Skrull.' Xavier says calmly.

I quirk an eyebrow; this homme makes me laugh. He's got no shame at all and his poker face is excellent, 'You welcome, m'sieur.' I smile, 'Consider it payment for de hospitality, oui?'

'Very well,' Xavier taps his steepled fingers against his lips to hide the slight smile, 'You are welcome to stay in my home as long as you need Gambit.'

I blink at the man too surprised to hide it. I sit up in the chair and uncross my ankles. 'Dat right?' I murmur not trusting this at all.

'Yes. I trust Ororo's judgement and know she would not bring anyone home with her that could not be trusted with the X-men's secrets. Equally, whatever your reasons for being here might be, you have assisted the X-men in a number of key endeavours lately. Assistance you gave freely and without reservation. Therefore I extend the invitation of residence to you for as long as you require it.'

Something twists inside me to hear those words. Is the man really thanking me for getting caught in the X-men's messes and then trying to muddle through the best I can? Does he really think I made a difference? Or is this merely a smooth operator performing a really good con?

Something like ice water runs through my veins and makes me feel light headed as I try to figure it out. I'm not smiling any more when I lift my gaze to meet those clever blue eyes.

'Dat's a very generous offer to make to a stranger, mon Professeur. Some people might say it be too big a risk too, no?' I say through cold lips. 'Especially if you believin' I'm a t'ief.'

This homme can't be serious. He must want something outta this thief and if not then he don't know what he's doing. He doesn't know me; he doesn't know a thing about me. If he did he would never let me stay. No one would knowingly let a monster like me stay.

Xavier smiles slightly in acknowledgement, 'Perhaps. However one could say that you too have taken something of a risk by remaining here as long as you have.'

'Quoi?'

My heart squeezes down hard. What does he know? What the hell does he want? Mon dieu, please don't let him know. Please not yet, don't let it all end now. I can't be found out yet. I haven't made things right; I haven't made my restitution to the dead.

Xavier watches me and I can feel each and every failed attempt he makes to whisper into my brain and peel away my secrets.

'Indeed. You have demonstrated a surprising willingness to trust, and work with, my X-men in highly dangerous combat situations. The X-men are total strangers to you, yet you have trusted them at your back in battle. That too is a risk, wouldn't you agree?'

Xavier's blue, blue eyes try to scorch through me. 'So far I would say that mutual risk, you trusting the X-men and the X-men trusting you, has paid off.'

Sweet god this man's not just good at the game he's a genius at it. This man is a master of the art of manipulation. I know he's not reading my mind because it's locked up tight, but bon dieu, he don't even need to hear my secret shame to read my soul.

'I s'pose you coul' say dat, mon Professeur.'

I shrug working on keeping my expression blank and my mind opaque. 'I t'ink I withhol' judg'men' m'sel on dat one, t'ough,' I mutter deliberately letting my accent thicken so that even I can barely understand what I just said.

'Very well.' Xavier says pleasantly looking down at the pieces of word processed paper on his desk.

'Think on my offer Gambit, and what we have discussed tonight. If you like we can talk more in the morning.' He glances up at me blue eyes too sly for his own good, 'For now though, it is late. Goodnight to you Gambit.'

He reaches forward holding out his hand across the desk and I'm not sure I want to take it as I rise obediently from the chair. I do take it though because I'm a con artist too and you never let it show when you been ruffled. The man's hand is warm and his grip is strong.

'Bon nuit mon Professeur,' I murmur politely as I leave his study with head held high and stride cocky. I keep my smirk on my face and my walk cocksure all the way out of the front door of the mansion and down the drive; making my tres, tres casual escape from the X-maison.

All the way I can feel Xavier's mind like a weight against my thoughts; trying and failing to break through. I don't mind it, suspicion is something I understand. Trust and generosity is something else though. Those I don't understand at all.

Think about the offer says the homme….non, not a chance. My brain is doing cartwheels and my thoughts are all over the place. There is not a chance I'll be getting anymore sleep tonight either. C'est la vie……guess I'll be off to find an all night bar or something, oui?

After all it's not like thinking things through is my strong suit. No, better to just sit back and enjoy the ride wherever it takes me; 'course a bottle of bourbon would help with that too.

Oui, enough with the thinking already (there's no telling who could be listening in, oui?). Tomorrow is still a ways away yet. I can put off the decision making a little while longer……

……or maybe just put off having to face the fact that I've made my decision already and it scares the shit out of me?


	28. Chapter 28

**Part Twenty-Eight: Welcome to the X-Men Gambit – what the hell do you think you're doing here?**

_A/N: apologies and belated welcome to Galimeril; thank you for your reviews and sorry it took me so long to say 'hi'. That hi and thank you also extends to Pokopoko as well. Also a warning……this chapter introduces Rogue, always a divisive subject with Gambit fans but, for better or worse, she's a huge part of his story so I can't ignore her._

* * *

'Gambit what are you doing?'

'Sleepin'.' I crack open an eyelid and look up at Stormy. She's got her hands at her hips and looking adorable; standing tall like the woman she now is but still acting like the padnat I remember.

She quirks an eyebrow, 'And do you often sleep on jettys?'

She looks out over the choppy waters of the man made lake to the south of the half-built mansion. The Professeur's rebuild is coming on a treat what with all the telekinesis and super strength to get things done and I'm curious to see what the place is supposed to look like. It's been mostly flat the whole time I've known it.

'Any port in a storm an' all dat, cherie,' I give her a strained smile as I try to fire up my brain. Oui but this hang-over is going to be a killer, I can just tell.

Stormy snorts derisively, something she'd never do with anyone else. Coming towards me she nudges me with her tennis shoe. 'Are you drunk?'

'Non,' I roll away from her foot and into a sitting position, groaning when the headache hits me. ''M hung-over, dere's a diff'rence. You know when you older, Stormy.'

Stormy backhands me across the head, lightly. 'How many times do I have to tell you? Do not call me that.' She stamps her foot. I grin at her; so much for the adult behaviour.

I still think it's weird that the lil' girl I tried to protect is – and always was - in reality older than I am. Though she doesn't know how old I am and I'm too much of a gentleman to tell her.

She's studying me with her cat eyes. 'Gambit, it is important to me that you at least try to behave like a member of this team.'

I frown. I'm going to blame the down turn in my mood on my hangover and not what she just said.

'What team? De one wit' all de back from space, or back from de dead mutants tip-toeing around each other like strangers? I already know how to control my powers, Stormy. An' I'm not much of a team player_.' _

'Then why haven't you left? If that is how you truly feel about the situation.' Stormy huffs; something squeezes down on my heart at her expression.

A spark of anger runs through me. 'Wit'out my partner; what kinda t'ief you take me for?'

How can she ask me that question? I've been put on trial in Genosha, teleported to a far off galaxy, been mentally screwed over by the Shadow King and put up with Wolverine's constant aggression and Forge's evil eyed looks for months just for her.

A tiny flicker of a smile graces her proud, angled features and Stormy settles herself down on the worn wooden slats of the jetty next to me, as regal as Nefertiti herself.

'I think, my friend, that you are the retiring kind of thief.'

'Pardon?' I blink at her stunned.

Now she's grinning like the wicked, quick witted thief I know, 'I think that you like it here. I think that you were looking for an excuse to give up your life of crime even before you rescued me. I think you enjoy being a hero and not a thief.'

I bark out a laugh. I can't help it. _'Hero? _Oh, ma cherie, dis cajun's been a lot of t'ings in his life but he has never been, and never will be, anybody's hero.'

Stormy gives me this strange look, like she's disappointed and amused all at once. 'You were my hero when we were thieves together.' She slips her arm through mine, brushing her head against my shoulder like she hasn't done since she was trapped in a child's body. 'And you have done well enough over these last few months.'

I snort thankful I don't redden up easily. I haven't had a clue what's been going on half the time and she damn well knows it. 'A fight's a fight; don't matter if it's a man or a shapeshifting alien lizard thing.' I wave my hand to encompass all and sundry weirdness.

'You mean the Skrulls?' Stormy smiles at me.

'Prob'ly.' How the hell should I know? Most of the time I'm struggling to figure out who's supposed to be friend and foe. All these superheroes and supervillains look alike to me anyhow.

I'm gathering the courage to have a crack at that Cerebro computer system. I've already got the securities sussed I just need to convince myself that showing an interest is not tantamount to being interested in joining up. Not that they'd have me. Not if they knew.

(And oui, I did just say 'tantamount' – so sue me, I like to improve my vocabulary, even if none of these x-men ever going to hear me use half the words I know).

'I think you would make a valuable addition to the team, especially if Cyclops gets his way and the X-Men are split into strike teams.'

Stormy says and I force myself back into the conversation once again with a smirk. 'Strike team.' I mutter and shake of my head.

Studying me with that same amused expression Stormy nods; 'He will lead a 'Blue' team and I will take a 'Gold' team.'

'Least dey respectin' your leadership,' It had occurred to me that my Stormy could get sidelined now that the X-factor team, who seem to be some kind of royalty around here, had returned to the X-Men.

'The X-Men are a family; we respect and support each other.' Stormy tells me for the umpteenth time.

'Good for you den, Stormy.'

I rub at the ache at my temples. The X-Men are a family, huh? All the more reason to get gone; I don't do well with families. And I sure as hell don't want to get involved with another 'mutant strike team' (really I don't -not even a little).

Stormy has been watching me the whole time I've been getting lost in my hang-over. It occurs to me that I should say something witty or do something before she gets into asking any questions, but screw it I'm hung over and tired. Passing out on a jetty does not a good night's sleep make, or something like that.

'Come my friend, let's return to the mansion. I will cook you breakfast and dose you with Tylenol.'

'Merci beaucoup Stormy,' I reach out and kiss the back of her hand, summoning a real smile from somewhere. She always makes me feel better. 'But I'm not sure I can cope with one of your _breakfasts_ this morning.'

She's frowning now, but a smile twitches her lips, 'And what is wrong with my breakfasts?'

I bite back a smirk. Where to start? My Stormy tres, tres talented in many things but she can't cook for shit. Still that's not the sort of thing a body tells his friend, non?

'Not a t'ing, cherie, dey magnifique, but my head's full of concrete and my mouth is full of ash and dust. I couldn't possibly properly savour de full range of flavours in your…' I fake a shudder, '…cooking.'

Stormy laughs and gets to her feet, 'One of these days _mon cher_, your silver tongue is going to get you killed.'

'Too true,' I jump to my feet as well not giving in to a wince as creaky muscles and dead limbs protest.

I make myself the promise that next time I'll find somewhere more comfortable to pass out. I spend a minute trying to get my hair in order but only manage to make even more of a bird's nest outta it. C'est la vie if I'm going to pass myself off as a no-account bum I should look the part, non?

Stormy has been watching me the whole time with obvious amusement. She's the only one in this fucked up household that knows how vain I truly am, she also knows I can talk in words of more than two syllables but for some reason she hasn't called me yet on the act. I smile at her and wink.

'Hows 'bout I cook breakfast an' you supply de scintillating conversation?'

I slip an arm around her waist and give her a quick squeeze. Stormy is not a touchy-feely person but she don't seem to mind when I grope her. Friendship, got to love it, no?

'Very well my friend.' She agrees walking arm in arm with me back to the mansion. She smiles sideways at me, real sly like. 'While we eat you can explain to me how you came to be passed out unconscious on the pier, _d'accord_?'

I roll my eyes, 'Like I tole you before Stormy, you got to wait 'til you older, non?'

I smirk at her and she summons a small raincloud to burst over my head. The light shower is tres refreshing but when she adds some lightning to her miniature weather system I figure it's time to surrender after all, oui?

My Stormy chases me into the mansion raining the elements down on my head. We're both laughing like crazy by the time we reach the kitchen.

* * *

Later on, Stormy is telling me about one of the X-Men's adventures in Australia while I make omelettes with the works. I know this is her attempt to be subtle, tell me all about the people I'm now living with so I'll feel - what? Welcome? Included? I'm not either nor do I really want to be, right?

'Lordy 'Ro ya telling that story again? Gambit will think we're all a bunch of nut-jobs for sure.'

Rogue walks into the kitchen. I find her thick Mississippi accent refreshing surrounded by all these nasal tone Yankees with their clipped vowels and perfect diction.

'Now that smells good. Whachure cooking Gambit?'

She saunters over to me wearing a yellow and green skin-tight body suit that accentuates all the right areas and for just a second, watching that almost lazy, hip-swaying sashay, I see the ghost of Belle; sultry and inviting but still with an edge of danger that's just too damn much temptation for a boy like me.

Mon dieu but I'll be damned twice if I don't miss my wife sometimes.

Still, though I barely know the femme, I know that Rogue sure is no Belladonna (mores the pity). She _is_ one of the most openly flirtatious women in the mansion however, even though, apparently, she's the gal in the bubble because her touch-based powers suck the life out of a person. Or something; truthfully I forget who's got which powers sometimes.

'Not'ing special Rogue; omelette, French toast, bacon, tomato, Crepe Suzette for dose wit' a sweet tooth,' I shrug, winking at Stormy.

Rogue snorts a laugh and gives me a sceptical look, 'Crepe Suzette and he says it's nothing special.'

She looks over at Stormy knowingly before giving me a challenging look, 'Ah can tell ya haven't been here too long swamp rat; culinary skill is a real rarity 'round these parts.'

Opening the oven door I pull out the plates I left in there to keep warm and start dishing up the rest of the food. I decide to ignore the fact that she just called me 'swamp rat' partly because it doesn't sound like she meant any harm by it and partly because it's not entirely inaccurate.

'Dat don surprise me none. Dese Yankees don know a t'ing bout good eatin'.'

Rogue gives me an oddly warm smile, and not her usual slightly brittle one that she pastes on in her attempt to look permanently cheerful, which seems to be what she does, for some reason.

'Well, ah guess ah agree with ya there. 'Bout time there was another true blue southerner here in the mansion. Spend enough time with these '_yankees'_ an' ya start talkin' like 'em.' She rolls her eyes.

'God forbid that.' I smile moulding my words into a broad New Yorker accent. Rogue laughs, though she seems surprised I can talk without a drawl. Most people have this view that accents are permanent, but the way a body talks like the way a body looks is changeable.

'Care to join us Rogue, if good eatin's hard to come by round dese parts?' I carry the food over to the table. There's enough to feed most of the mansion because if I'm going to cook at all it's going to be for more than just me or what's the point?

'Well…' Rogue looks at Stormy almost like asking permission, which makes me smile, though I hide it. No wonder Forge keeps giving me dark looks. Stormy, just like I expected, don't object.

'By all means Rogue, perhaps you can help me persuade Gambit to stay at the mansion. I know I will miss his cooking when he goes.' She gives me a pointed look.

Rogue, who has already served herself up a big mess of bacon and a large slice of the giant omelette I made pauses, cutlery poised and ready. 'Ya're leaving?'

Feeling weirdly uncomfortable I shrug, 'Roads to walk an' marks to fleece.' I look over at Stormy, 'Though it's gon be a lot less fun to do on my lonesome.' And that's the god's honest truth.

Rogue shoots a covert look to Stormy and then back to me, 'Ya're going _back_ to stealing?' Rogue sounds, what's the word, _scandalized. _She also looks tres fetching all wide eyed and rosy cheeked. This could be fun.

Smirking my trademark smirk I flutter my eyelashes at her, 'Well sure chere, dat is what a master t'ief does, after all.'

'Well obviously, Cajun,' Rogue rolls her eyes again but there's an appreciative smile playing at the corners of her lips, 'But mostly when a person hangs out with the X-Men they tend to either join up or live better, law abiding lives after.' She gives me a strange look, 'Ah should know.'

Ignoring the subtext because it's too early in the morning I decide to keep things light.

'They do?' I give her wide eyes and then turn to Stormy, 'You never told me dat. If I'd known I could end up reformed I'd o' let you make your own way home from Nawlins.'

'Scoundrel.' Stormy tuts at me, smiling, but there's something in her eyes, something sad, worried? I can't read it.

'Greetings and salutations to you all on this fine and temperate day,' The Beast, Henry Hank McCoy, man of many long words and much blue fur, bounds into the kitchen and leaps across the room and into one of the empty dining chairs.

'Hark, but which of my lovely and multi-talented compeers has prepared this veritable feast this morning?' Beast asks helping himself without being invited to some of the omelette and fixing a questioning gaze on Rogue and Stormy, ignoring me.

'Help yourself mon ami, an' t'anks for de compliment; I t'ink you lovely too.' I smile sweetly at the Beast while Stormy hides a smirk of her own behind her hand and Rogue snorts into her orange juice. Beast looks confused for all of two seconds.

'Ah, forgive me my Acadian friend; I thank you for your generosity. And to my two fair ladies, I apologise for the misogynistic assumption regarding these culinary delights. I should have known better. No woman in these fair hallowed halls can cook.'

He says recovering quickly but the shock and the slight hesitation to continue eating are still obvious when you know what to look for. Not so quick to eat when you know it's not an X-Man that made your breakfast, are you mon frere?

We all sit and eat in companionable silence for a few more moments before, 'Hey I thought I smelled breakfast. Wow. Where'd all the grub come from?'

Jubilee, in over-sized nightshirt with her short black hair sticking up every which way, comes into the kitchen with Wolverine at her heels like some over-grown and mangy dog. Have I mentioned recently I don't like the homme?

'Gambit has cooked for us this morning.' Stormy tells them and I raise an eyebrow. I thought I'd cooked for her. The only one I invited to this little breakfast party was Rogue.

Jubilee gives me a look, 'Is it safe?' she hesitates half way to spearing a rasher of bacon. Saints above, but these people can eat.

'You don' want it p'tite, den don eat it.'

Jubilee sticks her tongue out at me, 'What's in the omelette?' She pokes at the giant omelette on the plate, or what's left of it, anyhow.

'Diced ham, green peppers,' I shrug, 'Ain't not'ing special.'

'Ah didn't know we had any fresh veg in.' Rogue admits swallowing the last of her third slice of French toast, 'This is real good though sugar. Ah was getting mighty sick of Cap'n Crunch.'

'Your welcome, Rogue.'

I make eye contact and give her the patented Remy Lebeau sultry look, or maybe that should be the Gambit sultry look? Eh, sometimes I confuse myself, non? Anyway it works like a charm (not that I doubted it would) and she colours up slightly and looks down at her near empty plate real intently. I turn back to my meal oddly pleased. Oui, I'm a charming devil and no mistake.

'Gambit brought home some groceries for us yesterday.'

Stormy says to no one in particular in answer to the question I'd forgotten. I give her a look.

It's true that I did that but only because I was worried that Stormy wasn't eating properly, being Vegan and everything. It's the same reason I made a small omelette sans jambon just for her. She may be a grown woman but I'm still her partner. Stormy makes it sound like I went grocery shopping for everybody.

I narrow my eyes at her when I see the surprise in the others' faces. Of course, that's what she wants. It's not just me she's trying to convince to stay on here; she's trying to convince the others to let me. Devious little scamp.

'There's no more bacon.' Jubilee is complaining. 'Somebody coulda told me the Cajun was makin' breakfast, I would've got up earlier.'

I look around the table. Rogue's finished and is eyeing the last of the omelette speculatively (another new word; I've been taking pointers from Monsieur Bete, not that he need know that). Stormy is eating slowly and Beast is eating enough for three. I sigh and get to my feet, finishing off the last bite of my breakfast.

'How you like your bacon, p'tite? Underdone or burned to a crisp?' I ask over my shoulder as I pull open the refrigerator. So what, I like the p'tite; she's as out of place here as I am.

Jubilee grins at me, pleased, 'Burnt to a crisp.'

I nod, 'An' you monsieur Logan?'

'You takin' our orders now, Gumbo?'

Wolverine sneers and he's not just talking food. I get the dig but ignore it. Logan's another x-man who seems to like giving me nicknames. I'm not about to let it bother me though; figure Logan going around calling me 'Gumbo' reflects worse on him than me, non?

The fact that I think Wolverine does it just to make sure I know he don't like me, helps make it easier not to care.

I shrug casually as I answer his question (or should that be insult?), 'Don seem like none of you can cook to save your lives so I may as well help.' I glance over at Stormy and give her a slight smile, 'Dat's what teammates do, no? Help each other out?'

There's a pause just like I knew there would be. Beast, Wolverine and maybe Rogue all wondering if they'd call me teammate or even want too, but it's Stormy's smile that matters to me. I don't like what she's trying to do here, shoe-horn me into a life and a home I don't belong in but I care too much for her to be an ass about it.

Anyway I'm busy frying up a mess of bacon and some more French toast, some fried tomatoes and whatever else when the king and queen of X, Cyclops and Jean Grey, stroll into the kitchen preceded by the soft hover of Xavier's wheelchair.

'Good morning everyone,' Professor Charles Francis Xavier: X-Men leader, visionary, nifty manipulator and smooth operator, comes to a stop by the table. Everyone says good morning.

I don't bother, concentrating on the frying pan instead. Since that strange midnight conversation in his study I've been trying to avoid the man. Xavier is supposed to be the world's greatest telepath, for a man like me with my secrets that's enough to make me sweat. The fact that he's so dignified and generous towards a man like me makes it even harder to meet his eyes.

'Hey prof, Gambit's making everyone breakfast.' Jubilee chirps, 'Try the omelette it's really good.' Another pause, 'Even if it has _green_ things in it.' She adds and I can feel her wicked grin behind my back.

'Peppers, p'tite, dey called peppers.' I mutter.

'Indeed. I wasn't aware we had any 'green things' in the larder.' Mon Professeur admits.

'Gambit went to the Farmers Market yesterday. There should be enough to last until the end of the week.' Stormy says, determined to sing my praises to everyone.

'He did?' That's Cyclops. And oui, mon cher Capitan is just that tactless talking like I'm not in the room. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

'Oui, _he_ did Cyclops, dat a problem?' I turn and give him a look, bringing the frying pan laden with food over to the table.

'Well no it's just….,' Cyclops begins but he trails off realising there is no good way to end that sentence when I'm standing beside him with a spitting hot frying pan. He rallies the troops anyway, 'Thank you.'

I shrug moving over to the professeur because any rube knows you serve the head of the household first. 'Don mention it. If I'm gon eat de food might as well keep de place well stocked, right Professeur?'

Xavier is watching me with those clear and clever blue eyes of his. My shields are in place and I know he's not trying to read me. NakNak taught me well back in Madripoor. Still it makes me uncomfortable especially as I keep thinking about the offer he made me; the offer of a home and place to stay for as long as I want it.

'Thank you Gambit. I haven't had a full cooked breakfast in quite some time.'

'Hey! Some of us have been waiting way longer you know,' Jubilee again.

'Quiet kid.'

'Don't tell me to be quiet Wolvie you'd have died in Australia if – ' and I tune her out. It's the only thing to do. I can feel my hang-over coming back.

'Something wrong Gambit?' Jean Grey asks. I can't decide what to make of the woman. Beautiful without question but she's got a spark to her that doesn't seem to fit next to a man like Cyclops. And yet she's just as morally superior as he is.

'Non.'

I plunk the frying pan into the sink with the other dirty dishes. As I cooked somebody else can wash up, and don't get me started on why, in a house with an alien gymnasium and two Blackbird fighter planes in the basement, no one thought to buy a dishwasher. I scrape dark bangs from my eyes and decide I really need a shower (Stormy's rain shower don't count). Filling my stomach helped to keep the hang over at bay but now it's coming roaring back. I need to get some sleep in a real bed.

'Bon appetite mes braves.' I say as politely as I can manage making for the door.

'You aren't going to eat with us?' Jean sounds both surprised and irritated.

I flash the redheaded femme a smile guaranteed to piss off Cyclops, 'Merci anyway Jean but I've had my fill.'

I'm almost to the stairs in the half finished main hallway when Cyclops calls me back.

'Gambit – wait.'

I could just ignore him. It's not like I owe the man any loyalty, but I do stop and come back to the open doorway; I don't know why and decide not to worry about it.

'Oui Cyclops?'

It's strange looking at all the people crowded around the table: Stormy and Rogue, Jubilee and Wolverine, Beast and Jean Grey, the Professeur with his knowing eyes. It's odd to think of myself in connection to these people, or anyone at all.

Cyclops watches me also, 'We have a team briefing in the War Room at thirteen hundred hours.' Cyclops pauses and glances at Stormy and then the Professeur. 'I'm going to announce the new team structure. I assume we'll see you there?'

I can feel the weight of Stormy's eyes on me, of all their eyes on me. This is it. This is the moment when I stop thinking about it and actually start walking. It's time to go now, Gambit. You don't belong here and you know it, boy.

I open my mouth and words come out. Not the words I meant to say. 'It's sure beginning to look dat way.' I mutter.

I shake my head disgusted with myself. What the hell am I thinking? I can't _stay_ here, no matter what Xavier says. I turn towards the hallway again and as I do I see Stormy's broad smile and, oddly, Rogue smiling also. A smirk plays across my lips. I make eye contact with Rogue.

'I'm not done _reforming_ yet anyhow.'

Cyclops doesn't get it but I see the spark of understanding and amusement in Rogue's bright green eyes and the glad relief in Stormy's serene blue gaze. That's all I need really. I don't care about the others; it's the welcome in those femmes' eyes that keeps me here.

Still as I turn to make my tres sophisticated and enigmatic exit all of a sudden I can't help but wonder if the joke isn't on me, after all?

* * *

_A/N: Only two chapters to go now. ;-0_


	29. Chapter 29

**Part Twenty-Nine: Blue and Gold and a little friendly advice**

I'm sitting out by the lake again on the Xavier grounds, watching the waters dance under the sun and deliberately not thinking about anything of any importance.

There's a slight chill in the breeze and so I keep my trench coat on. The hand of solitaire I have laid out on the worn boards of the jetty could go flying into the breeze at any moment and the smoke from my cigarette twists away too fast to blow smoke rings.

I sense the backdraught of displaced air as Rogue comes down for a landing on the pier behind me. I don't bother to turn around and greet the femme just yet because I'm not feeling all that sociable. I've only been up about a half hour and Cyclops' team briefing hoopla is supposed to start in less than an hour.

The femme is watching me; I can feel her eyes on me. A grin twitches my lips. So sue me, I like the attention, non?

Knowing I have an appreciative audience I decide to give the nosy femme a show. Real casual like I lean back on my elbows letting the trench coat fall off my arms with a twitch of my shoulders. I stretch my legs out across the boards of the jetty and arch my back, knowing the femme going to get her an eyeful of my tres toned and perfected physique.

As the coup de grace I tilt my head back, turning my face up to the sun, which just so happens to allow me (accidentally on purpose) sight of Rogue staring at me as I open my eyes, a look of contentment on my face (I've been told I do a good contented look).

The femme's face is a picture; she looks like she wants to eat me right up. I bite my lip on a grin. Oui, so I be teasing the femme, but it's not like I asked her to come stare at me, is it now?

'Bonjour Rogue; help you wit' somet'ing chere?'

I ask her sweetly as I twist my spine so I can remain in my lounging position and further show-off the perfection that is me. And, oui, Rogue's eyes track my every movement.

D'accord I'm playing with fire and I know it, but then I've never claimed to be all that bright and frankly flirting beats the hell outta thinking every time. It's just a little fun; there be no harm in it, oui?

Rogue licks her lips looking a bit flush, 'Ah…well sugar ah saw ya head down here and ah….' She trails off awkwardly.

Deciding that I've pushed the femme far enough (especially as the last thing I want to do is get any more tangled with the X-men by falling into the sack with one) I shrug my trench back onto my shoulders and sit up, drawing my knees up to my chest. I pat the boards of the jetty beside me companionably.

'Merci beaucoup Rogue, you come to keep this boy company, non?' I give her a 'nice' smile as opposed to my more usual jack-ass grin or flirtatious smirk. I'm trying to be good, honestly I am.

'Kinda sugar; thought ah'd offer ya some advice too. If ya man enough to take it?' she gives me a challenging grin as she goes airborne to cross the distance to where I'm sitting and settles onto her two feet before me. I widen my eyes all mock innocent.

'Advice chere?'

Rogue seats herself cross legged on the jetty facing me (but not too close, mind, there's about two inches of dead air between her and me like a buffer).

'Ah-huh, figured if ya really plannin' on stayin' on like ya tol' ole Cyke this morning, then ah should be team-mate like and give ya the benefit of mah experience.'

'Dat right chere?' Well colour me curious, this is unexpected, non? Not to mention a petit bit ominous. 'D'accord, I never been known to ignore the advice of a belle femme.'

I gesture for her to go on and impart her wisdom and shift on the jetty mimicking her pose; crossing my own legs and cupping my chin, almost unconsciously. I have the habit of copying people's body language; too long working scams where fitting in is the difference between a payout and jail sentence, I suppose.

Rogue rolls her eyes at me, 'Now _that_ sugar is going to get ya into a whole world o'trouble.'

'What is?' I ask genuinely confused as I flick my cigarette butt into the lake, charging it so it goes pop in a pink flash just before it hits the water (it's as good a way as any of disposing of my trash, non?)

Rogue had been watching my cigarette but she turns back to face me nibbling her lip, 'Ya flirting sugar. Ya gonna get the men is this house all riled up if ya keep flirtin' with all us gals.' She bites down on her lip, 'Hey sugar, ya mind if I cage a cig off ya?'

I blink at her, 'Non; go 'head.' I offer her one of my cigarettes and tap a finger to the end to light it for her, 'I din't t'ink you smoked?'

'Ah don't.' Rogue tells me as she inhales real deep from the cigarette delicately pursed between her full lips. I raise my eyebrows questioningly as she perches the cigarette between her fingers like she's done it before.

'Oui Rogue, dat's sure what it looks like too, non?'

She sighs, smoke rolling from between those lips, 'Well ah don't do it real often, anyhow.'

Her expression turns momentarily fierce, 'Don't tell anyone Cajun, hear me? No one will _believe_ ya anyway. Ah may not be lil' miss popular 'round here, but at least they trust me.'

I raise my hands in mock surrender; amused. 'Don you worry none, Rogue. I'll keep your secret. Keeping secrets is a talent of mine.'

I wink at her then change the subject, 'For your information, chere, I've not been flirting. I'm just been bein' _sociable_.' I flash a smile her way, 'My Papa taught me to always compliment a lady.'

Rogue grins, 'Ah-huh, shame ya _Papa_ didn't teach ya when ta hold ya tongue too.' She snickers behind her hand, 'Ah don't reckon there's a man in the house ya haven't pissed off,' she pauses thoughtfully, ''cept maybe the Professuh.'

'Well Rogue, my Papa never tole me to compliment de men too,' I quirk my eyebrows into a frown, 'You t'ink dey like me more if I start flirtin' wit' dem too; dey feelin' left out mebbe?'

Rogue coughs a laugh and she shakes her head before taking another drag of the cigarette.

' Them all back at the house would pitch a fit; though ah reckon it would be real fun ta watch ya try it.'

'D'accord. Mebbe I'll do it den? I like to live dangerous, me.'

'Ah'm gettin' that impression sugar.' Rogue smiles at me just this side of openly suggestive. I file that reaction away for later thought.

I light up a cigarette of my own as the conversation fades out and me and Rogue sit out on the lake and invite lung cancer together in companionable silence for a while.

'Wolverine's gunning for ya, Gambit. What did ya do to piss him off?' She asks me eventually.

I roll my eyes, frowning at the mere mention of that mangy Canuck. Now that homme is a real mood killer and no mistake, 'Breathed in and out, seems like.'

I tip my head back and take advantage of a lull in the breeze to make a perfect smoke ring, enjoying the simple pleasure of relaxed company and the warm sun on my face.

'Dat homme got him issues and none o' dem got a t'ing to do wit' me.' I add darkly.

The only way I can explain his aggression is that the half-pint psycho has him some kinda primitive territorial thing going on and I've just got the bad luck of being in his line of sight when he's feeling the need to mark his territory. That or he's hot for me and frankly that thought is so repulsive I'm going to have to start repressing it right now. Shit.

Mais oui, need to think about something else right this minute. Saints but this place is not good for a boy's sanity at all.

Rogue is grinning at me when I look back at her and her green eyes are tres amused, 'Alright Cajun ah'll take ya word for it,' she shrugs snuffing out her cigarette on the boards of the jetty, 'Logan can be kinda hard on newbies. Least he was with me, that's for sure.'

I roll my eyes again dearly wanting to get off the subject before I start feeling ill, 'Non, de homme just needs neutering; he be a puppy after dat.'

Rogue looks up at me sharply, 'Don't be fooled Gambit. Wolvie's the best he is at what he does.'

I give the femme a look; that sounded suspiciously like a quote. After a moment I decide that I really don't want to know. Instead I smile real sly, 'So am I chere.'

'Oh yeah?'

Rogue cups her chin in her hands, elbows resting on her knees as I pick up her cigarette butt and mine and send them sparking into the air.

'And just what _are_ ya the best at sugar?' she purrs at me.

I grin; oh there are so many ways I could answer that!

Still I'm trying not to fuck things up here (no pun intended) and so I keep this conversation child friendly (though it pains me to give up all those rich pickings in the innuendo stakes).

'Pissing off vertically challenged Canucks, appar'ntly,' I shrug.

Rogue giggles and the sound surprises me. She sounds like Jubilee when she does that.

'Cyke thinks ya' re a trouble maker.'

I take a moment to process that. Aside from the fiasco with the communicator me and Cyclops have barely spoken. Where does he get off forming opinions like that about me? Shit he hasn't ever even _seen_ what trouble this boy can really be. Still as none of that is the sort of thing I want to share with these people I just cock my head to the side all curious and mild.

'Dat right? An' jus' what has dis poor boy done to deserve all dis bad mouthin'?'

And more to the _point_ are these X-men so starved for conversation that poor lil ole me be the hot topic all of a sudden? Non, don't answer that. I know the answer. They really are that dull.

Rogue is watching me like she just might know what I'm thinking or at least get the basic flavour. And oui, I've been picking up on her 'subtle' hints about her bad girl ways. I just don't see any reason to act on them. Least not until I know if they be an invitation or entrapment.

'Ya mean other than swagger about the place like ya own it and have Forge, Banshee and most of the rest of 'em convinced ya goin' ta run off with Storm and all the Prof's money, Swamp Rat?'

I laugh out loud at her words, before pressing a hand to my chest in mock pain. 'Now dat be unfair, Rogue. I do not 'swagger'; dat be tres gouche! Non, Gambit walk with refinement, me.'

I lean back on my elbows and bat my eyelashes at Rogue looking up at her from under them as I purr in my best winsome voice. 'Not my fault de men round 'ere got dem some self-esteem issues, no? As for Stormy,' I shrug sitting up again smile playing over my lips, 'Dat woman goes where she pleases an' anybody t'ink diff'rent a fool.'

Rogue laughs along with me and then fixes me with a sly look, 'Ah notice ya didn't deny that ya got ya eye on the Prof's money though Gambit.'

I shake my head still smirking, 'Not int'rested in mon Professeur's cash chere, don't need it me.' I quirk a brow at her, 'Did notice dat Kadinsky he got up on de wall of his study though. It be a copy but it's a good one.'

Rogue snickers pressing her gloved fingers to her lips; her eyes sparking like emeralds under the sun.

'Cyke's right about ya hon; ya _are_ trouble.' She shakes her head with bright amusement as she rises to her feet, 'Still ah reckon it's gonna be fun havin' ya around. Keep things lively, right sugar?'

I smile and stand up also, giving the femme a flourishing bow as I do so, 'I try chere. I try.'

* * *

The War Room, as the X-men call this shiny metal room with its constant draught and bad lighting, is not my favourite place in this here mansion; not even close.

The chairs are uncomfortable and the big metal table makes me nervous because it reminds me of operating beds and stainless steel labs. Cyclops is standing before the table hands on hips in a tres snazzy blue and yellow bodysuit (I never thought I'd miss his old lycra one piece – but then I guess wonders never cease round here, non?).

He's been droning on endlessly for the last forty minutes talking over a bunch of stuff most of the people round here already know because, hello, we were there when it happened!

I'm trying to listen, really. Admittedly that's mostly because I'm stuck sitting at the table with Stormy beside me, her hand clamped over mine on the table top. Every now and then she pinches the back of my hand to keep me from either nodding off (I haven't slept off the hang-over properly yet) or from saying something that I'll probably regret later.

Saints, but if mon Capitan don't shut up soon I swear I'm going to blow the room sky high outta sheer boredom.

Mon dieu but I know I'm in trouble when I start to miss Essex and his rants back in the day. At least the man had the benefit of being fucking terrifying to liven up his monologues, non?

'In light of recent developments and the increasing number and complexity of the threats facing both the X-men and mutant-kind in general it seems time to change the way the X-men function.'

Cyclops takes a breath and I sigh in relief at the respite from his voice. 'Mon dieu, I t'ought he never gon stop,' I murmur under my breath. Stormy pinches me, hard, on the back of my right hand and Rogue hides a grin behind her gloved palm on my left side.

'To that end the Professor and I have discussed the situation and feel, as our numbers have increased, we should take advantage of the situation and split into two teams. That way the X-men will be able to respond to a greater number of threats simultaneously.'

I quirk an eyebrow; why is the homme going on about this? Everyone here already knows about the 'Blue' and 'Gold' team thing he be planning. Why is it necessary to waste an hour of all our lives going over old news? Why the hell doesn't he just get on with it then?

Rogue's gloved hand nudges against my side and I look down to see she's trying to pass a note to me. Casually I reach down with my left hand and take the note, opening it up in my lap under the table.

_Bet you any money he's going to team you, me, Wolvie and Betts together under him. 'Roro will get the rest. Cyke will want to keep an eye on us 'bad kids'._

I arch an eyebrow and glance a question her way. Why would he do that? She just smirks and presses a finger to her lips real sly like. She takes the note back and crumples it in her hand.

'The team distribution will be as follows,' Cyclops says and I drag my attention back to him.

'I would like to remind everyone that team allocation is final; there will be no changes made to the team structure. The Professor and I have reviewed all the possibilities and we feel, excepting emergency situations and special circumstances where the powers or skills of certain X-men might need to be drafted to another team temporarily, that this is the best distribution of resources.'

'Shit…..Stormy I changed my mind cherie; I t'ink I go on 'ome to Nawlin's after all.'

I murmur in her ear, sinking into my chair in despair. Mon dieu, an assassin's bullet to the brain got to be better than this endless tedium. Why won't he just get on with it already!

Stormy keeps looking dead centre at Cyclops like she don't already know exactly what he's going to say and is real interested in hearing him go on and on. Still she does stamp on my foot under the table and pinch me again to make me shut-up (damn but I'm going to have a bruise on my hand and no mistake.) On my other side Rogue can't keep a giggle hidden and Cyclops' blind regard snaps our way.

'Rogue is there something you want to add to the discussion?'

What discussion? I think to myself, it's just been him talking endlessly for the last hour. Rogue however don't say what I woulda done if the homme had been talking to me and instead tries to keep a straight face while she shakes her head vigorously.

'No Cyke, ah just had something stuck in mah throat for a minute there, sorry for disturbin' ya.'

Cyclops tilts his head to include me in his frown and I resist the desire to say something uncalled for. What does he think me and Rogue are, a couple of kids? Mon dieu what insanity got into me that I said I'd stick around for this, and why the hell am I still sitting here taking all this shit when there is no good reason to put myself through it?

'Fine, as I was saying I will lead Blue team, which will be Beast, Psylocke, Wolverine, Rogue and Gambit.'

I blink. What? I glance from Rogue who mouths 'Ah told ya so' to Stormy who is deliberately not looking at me as Cyclops reels off the names of the rest of the X-men who get to play with my Stormy when I don't. Quelle surprise; Forge is on Stormy's team. Me, I'm beginning to sense a set up.

I feel myself getting tres pissed off as I sit here. I said I'd stay for Stormy's sake, but I never said I'd take orders from Cyclops. Stormy sure, I'll play by her rules because she's my friend, but I didn't sign up to take orders from a control freak with a lycra fetish or play war games with a psychotic Canadian, a nympho ninja, and a gigantic blue teddy bear.

Beside me Stormy keeps her hand flat over mine, almost grinding my palm into the cold metal of the table top. On my other side Rogue nudges me in the side.

'Won't do any good ta complain, Cajun. Like ah tole ya, Cyke ain't sure about ya and he wants ta keep all us trouble makers where he can keep an eye on us.' She murmurs urgently close to my ear.

I decide to take the femme's advice; not going to cause a scene in front of all the X-men, most of whom already have a low opinion of me. Non me and Stormy just going to have a quiet word later, then I'll go and thank mon Professeur for his hospitality and make my overdue departure.

There is no way I can play these games. I don't know why I even entertained the idea for a second that I could stay here with these people.

'The Professor, Storm and I have decided that a Danger Room session would be a good start to the new team structure. As you know the Danger Room has recently been re-fitted with the technology Lilandra gifted to us. The exercise will be an opportunity for the team leaders to assess your individual performances so we can best decide how to progress team training in the future.'

Cyclops presses buttons on a control panel on his side of the table and suddenly this tres impressive holographic 3D simulation of the mansion snaps to life, rising from the smooth glossy surface of the table.

'The exercise will be simple; an infiltration of the mansion with the intention of capturing Professor Xavier and Jean,' he nods to his woman who smiles at him slightly from where she sits at the end of the table.

'How you all chose to achieve the objective and distribute your forces will be up to you.' Cyclops tells the rest of us. 'Forge, Banshee, Beast and Jubilee will sit out on this exercise as they will help monitor the rest of you.'

'Hey – no fair, I wanna play too!'

Jubilee obviously didn't get Rogue's message about not interrupting our imperious leader mid-rant but Wolverine growls at her and the fille settles down, though she don't seem any happier about the situation than I am.

Come to think on it I'm not sure her name was even mentioned on the team roster. What's Cyclops going to do, kick her out of the mansion because she's under-age? Mon dieu the fille's been hanging with Wolverine for months, if she can handle _him_ she can handle a little make-believe in the Danger Room, eh?

Cyclops waits until the teenaged mutiny has been repressed and then nods his head, crossing his arms across his chest. 'Good; meeting over. Those of you taking part in the exercise, you have twenty minutes to get ready. I suggest you don't waste time.'

As if they've all received a cattle prod up the behind the rest of the X-cohort file out of the room on mon Capitan's orders, even Rogue, though she glances back at me curiously. I wait until everyone has left before breaking my hand out of Stormy's vice like grip. I fold my arms over my chest and glare at the empty room, propping my feet on the edge of the table.

'You got some explainin' to do, Stormy.'

Stormy sighs, 'I admit it was not the team allocation I might have hoped for my friend, but I understand Scott and Charles' decision.'

She reaches out to cup my chin and turn my face towards her. I know I'm sulking but so what? This is not what I meant when I said I'd stay. I figured I'd get to stick with Stormy and I could just pretend we were involved in a really weird pinch with a bunch of other people I had fully intended to ignore like they ignore me.

'My friend, you said you would stay.' Stormy tells me softly.

I jerk my chin out of her grip, 'Dat was before. An' I only said I'd stay for you, padnat.'

'I do not believe that.' Stormy tells me in her stubborn, firm voice that reminds me of the jeune fille that meant so much to me. 'I think you stay because you want to not to please me. I think that if you give yourself the chance you will find that you can fit into this team very well.'

I glance at her sharply. 'Ah oui, Stormy,' I snap, 'dat be why de rest of dem are treatin' me so well, non?' I shake my head savagely, 'I'm not takin' orders from Cyclops, de man's an asshole an' he don like me.'

'He is not and he does not even know you.' Stormy snaps back, 'Gambit you followed his orders very well in Genosha. He told me so.' I glance back at her and quirk an eyebrow.

'Quoi?'

Stormy smiles slightly, 'Indeed, he gave me an account of your actions while I was under the influence of the Genoshan Mutate process.' A slightly mischievous edge comes across her smile.

'You will have to show me how you unlocked those manacles with your feet.' She adds impishly. I can't help my slight smile at that. I just can't stay mad at this femme.

Mon dieu but this friendship and loyalty thing is nothing but a scam to get me to do things I just know are going to end up badly for moi. I can feel it in my bones.

'Oui Stormy, I teach you dat lil' trick,' I narrow my eyes at her, 'I'm warnin' you t'ough cherie, I'm not gon let dat man treat me like a kid. He does an' I'm not gon be accountable for my actions, d'accord?'

Stormy sighs and rises from the table offering her hand to help me up. I take her hand and rise to my feet.

'Just promise me you will try, Gambit. If you really do not feel that you can be happy here I will not force you to stay, but please, at least give yourself the opportunity to find out?'

I raise an eyebrow sceptically, 'You been takin' tips on emotional blackmail from de Petite, Stormy?'

'Yes, is it working?' she asks me bold as you like. I grin then. Non, just can't stay mad at this femme; can't seem to tell her 'no' either.

'Allors, enough already,' I shake my head, 'I tol' you I'd stay Stormy, and Gambit a man of his word, non?'

Stormy reaches out with her free hand not already holding mine to squeeze my shoulder, 'Thank you my friend. I think you may yet be surprised by Cyclops and yourself. This is for the best, Gambit, I truly believe that.'

I take the opportunity to tug Stormy into a light hug (only partly motivated by the fact that I know Forge is loitering in the hallway outside eavesdropping on me and Stormy's private conversation).

'For you, Stormy, I will try.' I drop a friendly kiss to Stormy's brow. 'I still t'ink Cyclops is an ass t'ough.' I add under my breath and disentangle from her with a quick squeeze for luck before she can comment.

I saunter out of the room knowing that Stormy is trying to decide whether to laugh or scold me. Outside the room I give a suspicious looking Forge a mock salute before turning on my heel and strolling down the corridor trench coat billowing behind me.

So I guess Gambit is an X-man now, oui? Eh, stranger things have happened and worked out well, I guess. Can't think what at the moment, but I'm sure I'll think of something.

I start laughing real softly to myself as I head off to change into my body armour for my playdate in the Danger Room; may as well laugh, non, it sure as hell beats screaming, right?


	30. Chapter 30

**Part Thirty: The Master of Magnetism and Rampant Insanity**

_A/N: I didn't intend to write this chapter at all; instead I had intended to wrap this story up with an epilogue, but then I decided that I needed to write a little more about Gambit's reasons for sticking with the X-men and his discovery of the X-men's connections to the Morlocks (in this story he had no prior knowledge of the X-men so didn't know about Storm being Morlock leader etc.) therefore I have written two extra chapters. This one is mostly just for fun (I wanted to do the infamous 'exploding Jean' scene of X-men 1 from Remy's POV) the next chapter will be seriously angsty. ;)_

* * *

I saunter into the Danger Room two minutes past the deadline and find myself paired up with Psylocke and Wolverine as punishment. Apparently we are to be 'assault team bravo'; mon dieu but it takes more effort than is pretty not to say something unfortunate in response to that.

I will say one thing for the set-up here, though. Even though I know the dimensions of the Danger Room and know that it's just a big, shiny metal cube filled with nothing it's difficult to remember that when the illusionary mansion sub-levels shimmer into life.

The Danger Room has been temporary partitioned so that the 'A-team' and us 'assault bravo' bodies don't get in the way of each other; I can almost hear what's going on with the others but I can't see them.

'So homme what's wit dese tunnels, eh?' I ask Wolverine as me, him, and mademoiselle Ninja wade through holographic water up to my knees in these tunnels that look scarily similar to a bunch of tunnels I never, ever want to see again. If I'd known there'd be tunnels I'd have bailed on this whole pointless exercise.

'Shut yer trap Gumbo.' Wolverine snarls at me, which is tres foolish of him because now I'm just going to have to keep talking non-stop just to piss him off; petty, oui, but so very satisfying.

'These passageways are part of the old Morlock tunnels that join with the mansion's sub-levels. We can use them to access the interior while 'A-team' distract the security measures Cyclops will have put in place around the mansion exterior.'

I barely hear most of what Psylocke has just said; my brain stalled and went into total meltdown at the word 'Morlock'. Mon dieu, please tell me I just heard her wrong.

'Morlock?' I whisper, feeling vaguely sick for a moment. I must have given something away in my voice or scent too because Wolverine turns back to look at me over his shoulder suspiciously.

'What's up with yer, Cajun? I ain't got time for flakes.'

Gathering my wits I roll my eyes and force my pulse rate, breathing, and the screaming panic deep inside me back under my control. I don't know what connection the X-men might have had with the Morlocks, if any, and I don't want to know.

'Just as well I ain't one den.' I smirk at the man and reach out a hand to stop Psylocke from moving forward.

I caught sight of the motion sensor alarm up ahead a handful of seconds ago but mademoiselle Psylocke doesn't seem to have noticed (and the femme calls herself an assassin; Belladonna would whup her ass in half a second). I pull a card from my trench pocket and nod my chin in the direction of the security trip wires and sensors I can't see but know are there.

'You t'ink if I blow dat dere sensor it might trip somet'ing else, mes amis?' I ask blandly already pretty sure it will.

My fellow 'bravos' exchange a look once they figure out about the arc of sensors the two of them were about to walk straight into the middle of.

'How'd yer pick up on the alarms, Gumbo?' Wolverine looks more curious than annoyed though I'm sure he's a little pissed that his oh so stealthy stalking would have landed him straight into a mess of trip wires and lasers without me here to stop him.

I give the man my patented jackass grin and a lazy shrug as I answer, 'Mon ami, it's my job, non?'

Before Wolverine can decide if he wants to gut me or not Psylocke places a warning hand on his arm before looking at me.

'Gambit do you think you can disable those sensors and any further detection devices that might be tracking our movements?'

I give the femme a long look, 'Chere, we in a big metal room filled wit' not'ing; you do remember dat don' you?' I wave my hand to gesture to our less than lovely surroundings, 'None of dis is real, d'accord?'

Wolverine snorts as if he found something I said funny. I don't know why; I was being serious. This whole exercise is just time wasting, non? I mean when you get straight down to it we are in a big empty room and no amount of loud noises and pretty make-believe pictures going to change that. Although it seems like I'm the only one that remembers that we're in nothing more than a really high-tech hall of mirrors.

Psylocke frowns at me, 'Be that as it may, Gambit. I want to win this exercise and you will either help me or I will remove you from the simulation right now.' She shifts her stance into a more battle ready one, 'Do you understand me, thief?'

A smirk twists my lips and I'm sorely tempted to let her try and do just that simple because I like the way the femme moves when she fights, 'Now, now, Lizabet' we all friends here, non? Don' suppose mon Capitan 'ppreciate it much if we fight among ourselves, oui?'

Psylocke gives me a tres impressive bloodthirsty smile that makes things south of the belt I'm not wearing perk up and pay attention, 'Who said I care what he likes? There are always casualties in war, after all.'

I laugh at that and quick as you like fling a card at where I'm pretty sure the hidden camera and control sensor for these make-believe security measures is located. The small explosion causes a distortion in the holographic environ for a moment and it's like the wall melts, then coalesces back into place. The tunnel snaps back into focus but this time without the sensors.

'Satisfied, mes amis?'

Neither one of my ungrateful compeers bother to say 'merci' but I take satisfaction in there slightly (grudgingly) impressed expressions. For a bunch of people who look down their noses at 'thieves' they sure are quick to take advantage of my ill-gotten skills, oui?

The three of us trudge through the flooded tunnel for what seems like years of boredom; I keep up a running commentary just to piss off monsieur short and hairy for a while but stop when I start to bore myself. I spend the rest of time wondering why it is we don't walk into the walls I know are really there and concede that there must be more to this Danger Room than just holograms.

Still think this whole exercise is just an excuse for Cyclops and le Professeur to watch us make fools of ourselves though. C'est la vie, I don't mind putting on a performance now and then. I'm just not going to take this thing seriously like Psylocke and Wolverine seem to; now that would be foolishness oui?

'Your pardon mes amis, but I t'ink we been spotted, yes?'

I point out dryly as the constricted tunnel passageway falls away all of a sudden like a bizarre acid trip and all these bright shiny yellow robots pop up outta nowhere to attack us. Ah oui, this is just too funny.

'So don't just stand there looking pretty Cajun, ace these suckers!' Wolverine snarls at me as he throws himself, claws flashing, into battle with the evil Transformers rejects.

'I fear your admonition is a waste of breath, my friend. Awfully considerate of Cyclops to put us up against opposition even my physical strength can overcome.'

I smile to myself as I leave Psylocke and Wolverine to play with the shiny yellow robots. Oui, it's not very team-player like of me but then, so what? This is supposed to be a competition, non? Plus I don't think me, Psylocke, and Wolverine got the same idea of what it means to win, anyhow.

I don't know if it's a glitch in the programme or what but when the robots came a-calling I saw an opening to get out of these damned sewer tunnels and up into what looks like a fairly faithful recreation of the brand new mansion. I took the opening; it's what any good thief would do.

So, the objective is to snatch Cyclops' woman and le Professeur, eh? Mais oui this could be fun.

I spot what looks like Jean Grey and mon professeur in an upstairs corridor of this faux mansion in this make-believe game of invaders. I drop down out of the air vent and land just behind Jean, who spins around ready to try and fry my brain now she's finished with the huge quiet Russian guy whose name I can't remember….ah, oui, Colossus. It looks like Mr Tall and Ukrainian met his match in the redhead too; ah well not like I'm going to give the femme the chance to get her psychic claws into moi, is it now?

Show time!

'Bonjour Jean!'

I throw my brace of cards to hit the wall behind the woman and she goes flying into the air. I move forward to catch her. I don't care about the rules of this game or le professeur; hell if I've got to take part in this pointlessness I might as well have some fun with it, non?

'Le tournement est finis, oui?' I declare cheerfully as I swoop an angry Jean Grey into my arms. I know that Cyclops is watching and that's what I want. I need payback for this humiliation after all. 'Time to claim the prize,' I purr grinning because I can just imagine the look on mon Capitan's face.

I kiss Jean Grey full on the lips and I must have more sex appeal than even I know, because the femme goes and _explodes_ sending me bouncing across the room. I hit the floor laughing not even caring that I just fell for the oldest trick in the book. Mon dieu this whole thing is ridiculous, might as well go out with a bang, eh?

(Still I would have preferred a 'bang' of a less literal and more euphemistic type, oui?)

'Under the rules Gambit,' Cyclops voice trails over the intercom system he's got set up in the Danger Room and I grin, lying back contentedly. Far as I'm concerned I've achieved my objective. I had fun and I pissed off the leader-man.

'I know, Cyclops.' I tell the man swallowing down my laughter and fishing out a cigarette, 'Je suis mort. I am now dead. As I always suspected, redheads, they have a dynamite kiss.'

I declare with mock solemnity before giving into more laughter as I pick myself up and walk over to the part of the Danger Room that is suddenly revealed, where the rest of my fellow 'casualties' are waiting in the wings.

'At your own risk my friend.' I hear Cyclops reply and there is just enough humour in his voice that I think maybe the man might not be a total waste. No, that was probably just distortion over the intercom. The man doesn't have the sense of style to appreciate my humour, no matter what Stormy tried to tell me.

Rogue is waiting for me as I take a pew and wait for the end game. 'Sugar ya are so bad,' she laughs, 'Cyke'll have ya head if ya try that on Jean for real.'

I just shrug and light my cigarette waiting for Cyclops or Stormy to release us lab rats from their high-tech maze. I'm hungry and I want a shower. This was a fun, oui, but I've got better things to do with my time than make a habit of jumping through hoops for Cyclops.

* * *

I'm trying to take a nice hot shower after the fun and games in the Danger Room when this incredible screeching siren goes off all of a sudden. Mon dieu but I thought my heart was going to go boom just then. Shit but a man can't take too many shocks like that. My ears are still ringing with the echo as Cyclops voice fills the room from the comm. system.

'Blue team hustle; we have a situation.'

Quoi?

I'm still trying to re-learn how to breathe after that damned siren so I don't fully register what I'm hearing. Mais oui, but I'm going to have to strip the walls to find the speaker for that alarm and disable it. No way in hell I'm having a freaking air raid siren going off in my room at all times of the day and night.

Still, maybe it's the noise that got to me or just the insanity that seems to fill this whole house but whatever it is I'm scrambling to pull on my body armour and get out of the room like I'm actually okay with being ordered about like a tin-soldier.

I step out into the hall just in time to be nearly mowed down by the bounding Beast and Psylocke.

'To quote the vernacular, it's time to rock and roll!' Beast hollers happily as he and Psylocke go haring off down the hall towards the hangar bay.

I watch them go for a moment and can't think of a single thing to say. Actually that's not true; all sorts of choice words come to mind, and in multiple languages too, I just don't have the presence of mind to say them just now.

I'll freely admit for about a minute I really did think about going back into my room and just ignoring the summons. I mean I don't even know what's going on here and it's insanity to just run head first into some dangerous shit just because someone fires off an alarm and shouts a command. Mon dieu, even Essex didn't expect that kind of blind obedience from me.

It's the thought of Essex that makes me move in the end. I can't really explain it to myself, except that the realisation that I'm still operating under that bastard's rules like I work for him is enough of a cold hard shock to propel me forward. That and I'm kinda curious to see what could get mon Capitan Cyclops so worked up.

'Wooo-hooooo, Forge sure fixed up the birdy but good; man did himself proud.' Rogue swoops airborne into the Hangar bay as I'm shrugging into my trench coat and still trying to figure out if I'm really doing what I seem to be doing.

'Bag the banter people.'

Cyclops barks out as he herds us into the Blackbird like little lambs to some unknown slaughter and even as I strap myself into my seat and wait for takeoff I'm thinking to myself that I really hope this is all a bizarre dream because otherwise I must be completely fucking nuts to be doing this.

I really wish I could call NakNak right now; maybe she'd be able to explain to me why it is that I keep doing these crazy things. Anyone would think I actually enjoyed doing this stuff, or something equally crazy like that.

As the blackbird rockets out of the hangar my brain is still trying to catch up with the reality of the situation I've now found myself in. Sure there was the mess in Genosha and that craziness in outta space, but I had excuses for those. One was about rescuing Stormy and the other one was accidental. I know if I'd had a chance to avoid either fight I would have done.

There's comfort in knowing that. I don't have to think too hard about what I've been doing lately, so different from anything I've been trained to do, if I just tell myself it was all an accident or bad luck.

This is different; nobody made me get in this plane, nobody forced me to stay on with the X-men so long that they all just assumed I was happy to join up for real. Non, I did this. I got myself into this mess and I can't really keep pretending anything else. I'm here because I want to be.

Always knew I was pretty fucked up in the head, right?

'Well, oh fearless and uni-orbed one. Blue team is all here and accounted for in our eclectic glory,' m'sieur Bete's voice distracts me from contemplating my own masochistic tendencies and I snap to attention. 'Perhaps you might impart to we eager and willing minions precisely what the situation is that we are headed full steam towards?'

I think I stop breathing for all of a heartbeat as I wait to hear the answer to that, and I can feel the quickening attention of my equally clueless compeers too. Least I'm not the only one sitting here without knowing what's going on, I suppose.

Cyclops keeps his attention straight ahead and focussed on flying this super-sonic jet (which I'm thankful for, I don't much like flying me - least not if I've gotta be the passenger.) Nevertheless I'm in the right position to see his hands tighten on the steering levers and I don't like the nervousness that reaction seems to suggest. It's like the Beast say, it is one thing for the foot soldiers not to know what the fuck is going down but it's another thing when the commander looks like he's not sure what we're going to be facing either.

Shit what were you thinking, boy? Getting on this plane without a clue in your head what is really going down? This is no way for a thief to do business. This is so unprofessional I can practically hear mon Pere, mon frère, Grey Crow and so many other fellow professionals yelling the words in my head. Saints, this is bad. This is so very, very bad. Damn I figured I was over the suicidal impulses but obviously not.

'Magneto has dragged an old USSR nuclear sub up from the seabed. The Russians think he's after the nuclear warheads still inside.'

Cyclops says after what seems like far too long. Of course once he's finished speaking I find myself wishing he hadn't said anything at all. The rest of blue team is silent as the grave after that, though Wolverine begins gnashing is teeth and Rogue has this odd look on her face.

'Lordy Magnus what're ya thinking?'

I hear her whisper but I'm not sure what she means. Mostly I'm trying to work out if I just heard mon Capitan right. He did just say Magneto, right? The self-proclaimed 'master of magnetism' and the most wanted and feared mutant on the whole fucking planet? Mon dieu, I be the first to admit that I'm not that up on mutant current affairs (oui, I can be self-absorbed, but at least I'll admit it, non?) but even I know _this_ homme's name.

Magneto; no, this just can't be happening. How did I end up in this situation? More to the point how the hell am I going to get myself out of it?

'Cyke, ya gotta let me talk ta him.' Rogue is saying urgently to mon Capitan. I look out of the wide front windows of the cockpit and realise that we're flying over the ocean (don't ask me which, it's not like anyone seems to know anything around here, or ask much in the way of pertinent questions, eh?).

'Maybe…..maybe Magnus….ah mean _Magneto_, maybe he don't mean nothing bad by what he's doing and we can just talk things over?' Rogue is still talking but I can't force myself to pay that much attention; mostly on account of the fact that I'm too busy panicking.

The atmosphere in the cabin is rife with subtext that I'm not privy to but for once I don't care. I'm still choking down the idea that six little mutants in a flimsy _metal_ plane are going to go and face off against a mutant terrorist and self proclaimed master of magnetism with a submarine full of nukes up his sleeve. C'est vrai, but if this wasn't my own imminent death I be looking at this whole situation would be tres, tres amuser.

'Man's got himself a bunch of nukes, anyone o' which could wipe out mosta the US, darlin'.' Wolverine growls wading into the conversation I'm not really listening to, 'seems t'me real clear what the man's got planned and talkin' ain't part o'it.'

Rogue twists around to face the mangy Canuck, anger suffusing her girlish face, 'Ya don't know him, none o'ya really know the man.'

I bite my lip on a nervous snicker; Jesus, who would _want_ to know the homme? Anyone who goes around waging one man wars on the whole of the human race is not exactly someone any sane person would want much contact with, non? In fact it seems to me that the sensible thing to do is, if the homme be on the war path, to get the fuck outta his way, oui?

Of course, considering the company I'm in you'd think I'd get over the idea that anyone around here is much acquainted with any kinda sense, right? Hell, I'm seriously thinking that I must be a helluva lot more screwed up in the head than even I realised to be sitting here in the first place. The vague hope that this is all some really disturbing out of body experience is quickly dwindling. Fuck. This is bad.

'Alright people listen up,' Cyclops voice cuts into the argument between Rogue and Wolverine and slices through my racing thoughts.

'Rogue you go down with Wolverine and Psylocke; see if you can talk with the man. I'm inclined to agree with Wolverine, I think Magneto is hostile, but if we can avoid conflict we should do so. Beast and Gambit will stay on-board as I bring the Blackbird around behind him.'

Mary mother of God all I wanted to do was clean my act up; do a little good to balance out a life time of shady dealings. This sure as hell wasn't what I had in mind. Sweet God we are all going to die. This is madness.

Yet, despite knowing this is suicide and silently cursing Stormy and Cyclops and the rest of the X-men and wishing them all painful deaths (eh, Magneto probably oblige me on that one soon enough) for the situation I'm now in, I still don't seem to be doing a thing about it. That's the most disturbing part; I'm just sitting here, not saying a damn word.

Oui, I am so dead. Shoulda just blown my brains out on that bridge in Madripoor; it woulda hurt a lot less than whatever Magneto has planned for the X-men.

Something like five minutes later, when the master of magnetism himself stops our plane from moving through the air with a wave of his hand, I've come to some kind of acceptance of the situation. I mean what the hell, right? Gambit isn't real so he can't really be mad that this bunch of insane mutant do-gooders have gone and got him killed (most likely) and Remy Lebeau deserves to die, so D'accord, might as well go with it, oui?

That's what I'm thinking when Beast pulls the plane doors open and gestures for me to climb on his back as he jumps out of the damn plane and we begin to free fall. Oui, I'm clinging to a big, three hundred pound blue furry gorilla that uses long words I don't fully understand. Oui, we're headed straight for one of the most dangerous men alive and the homme looks plenty pissed already. Oui, I think we are all insane……but…….but…..

……well, it don't really need saying does it? As I throw my brace of cards at monsieur buckethead, knowing full well and good that wax paper playing cards won't do a thing to the homme even if they are charged, I can't help but see Essex's disappointed look in my mind. I grin.

It may be insanity but it's my choice. Maybe for the first time in my life, I'm making my own choices. It's fun; even if it is most likely going to get me killed.


	31. Chapter 31

**Part thirty-one: Laissez le Bon Temps Rouler; the road to hell and all that jazz**

The bourbon in my glass is not the best but the music is good and the club is filled with the velvet blue shadows of cigarette smoke and the impersonal heat of too many people packed into one place. It's all anonymous silhouettes and whiskey Blues as I sink into the booth at the back of the club.

My hands have finally stopped shaking but I can still feel the phantom tremors of fading adrenaline spike through my muscles. I close my eyes and suck in a lungful of smoke from my cigarette like it's a lifeline; suppose it is in some ways.

It happened again; my life crashed and burned.

I should have damn well known. It's like I'm cursed; cursed to destroy and corrupt anything I fucking touch. Christ, sweet mother Mary, this is too much. This is too damn much. I slam the shot glass down hard on the table top and breathe out carefully. It's been a while since one of my freak outs could blow a room but I don't want to risk it.

This is all Mon Professeur's fault. Hah, even I can't make myself believe that one. Must be losing my touch, going soft me, once upon a time I could lie to myself so easily.

I stub out the cigarette into the ash tray and pour myself another generous shot of bourbon. I down the shot almost before I'm done pouring and refill the glass without thinking. For a moment I just stare into the glass, looking for answers in all the wrong places; quelle surprise.

It's been five months, all told, since me and Stormy pitched up at the mansion. I smile and shake my head. It feels a helluva lot longer than that. So much has happened, and there be so many things for a boy to get his head around.

The thing with Magneto and his Acolytes panned out in the end. Once again I had my head all turned around or something. Truthfully I'm not real sure what happened. One moment I was trying to figure out if I was really going to throw in with the X-men, next thing I know me and the rest of the team go and side with Magneto and set up house in his floating asteroid homestead.

Apparently we were all manipulated with some kind of genetic and psychic tampering to change allegiance, but seeing as how I barely had an allegiance to begin with I don't see how I coulda been screwed with to betray a bunch of people I never made commitment to in the first place.

Mon dieu, it's not like that's ever stopped me before, eh? Didn't have no allegiance to the Morlocks neither but I sure as hell betrayed them, oui? C'est la vie betrayal is the bread and butter of my life.

Anyway, long story short, the mind-fuck didn't take and Blue team and Gold team kicked ass before Magneto ended up betrayed by his own Judas, some lil batard name of Fabian Cortez. The X-men made it home safe but Magneto and his asteroid went up in flames. Alls well that ends well I guess.

I was doing okay with things after that; even getting used to be mentally messed with, which seems to be an occupational hazard with the X-men. Least ways I was doing okay until le Professeur decided that I needed a crash course on X-men history to get me up to speed with the gossip. Not that he put it like that. Anyhow the homme decides to give me access to Cerebro's files and a whole afternoon to peruse at my leisure.

So, what did this boy do? Oui, I go and check up on my Stormy; figure that she won't mind me poking into her business, us being friends and all. Mon dieu, I did not know. I couldn't have known what I'd find.

My Stormy, my belle jeune fille, the first person to trust me completely without ever asking anything of me except the best I could be (the only person to believe I _could_ be something better than a thief and con-man) was once the Morlock queen. They were her people to protect. She was _there_, in all that horror, when I led the Marauders into those tunnels.

She fought to save lives while I ran away from the destruction I had caused like a fucking coward.

I have to let go of the shot glass in my hand because it's either let go or charge it by accident. I let my head fall back to rest on the back of the booth. Breathe in and breathe out, push the bile back down my throat and chase the biting darkness from my vision.

I don't know how I managed not to throw up all over the damn console when I read about the 'Morlock Massacre' as the X-men call it. Don't know how I managed to keep the screaming all on the inside. Sometimes my capacity to lie through my damn teeth shocks even me. Not sure I can stop now even if I was inclined to. It isn't like I've ever really understood what the truth is, anyhow.

It was like I couldn't stop after I started reading. It felt like my brain had just ripped right open. The fissure of poison inside me that I keep locked down behind those tres impressive mental shields that le Professeur is so curious about opened wide and hungry; misery loves company and I couldn't get enough of the pain I had caused.

The words just kept coming; scrolling down the screen. Some of the names I knew, some I didn't. I read stories of horror and pain and depravity like a sick, twisted voyeur; the sweat just kept pouring down my face. The words kept coming too in computerised black and white detail.

I wanted to turn away; I wanted to get up and run and never stop. I wanted to fall on my knees and beg forgiveness, or thrown myself down at le Professeur's feet, or Stormy's feet, and confess to everything. I didn't though, didn't do any of it.

I just sat there and read all about it as if I hadn't been there in the filth and the blood and the chaos.

I had to know what damage I had done to my Stormy. I had to know how badly I betrayed my best and only friend before I even fucking met her. I had to know. That's what I told myself then; that's what I'm trying to make myself believe now. Have to have the facts before I can plan my next move, right? It was not having the facts the first time that got me into the whole mess, no? It's not like knowing the facts of the massacre could be worse than what I imagined; least that's what I told myself sitting dumb as a stump before the console.

Of course that just goes to show I've not got that much in the way of imagination, oui?

I don't have words for what it felt like reading the tres detailed, oh so carefully compiled, files the X-men have on the Morlocks, on the Marauders, on Sinister. Seeing it in print, cold and impersonal, a litany of sin against the people I'm now living with. It's almost worse, reading it, seeing it all laid out so cleanly; so devoid of any emotion.

It's funny, oui, but as I was reading about all the sick, twisted things Sinister gone and done to Cyclops and Jean, and all the hurt and pain the Marauders (people I hand picked for their viciousness) caused to Archangel and a bunch of folk I've never even met, I kept thinking: where's my file?

Mon dieu, shouldn't there be a file on the two-faced, chicken-shit scum who hired these killers? The coward who set up the whole horror show in the first place? Where was the file on the asshole that hand picked just the right bunch of psychos to cause all that carnage? Where is that monster's file?

I lift my glass to my lips and it's only then that I realise it's empty. Quoi; where did the liquor go? C'est la vie, there's always more where that came from. I pour myself another glass and down it in one. C'est bon, that's better. The burn chases away the cold aching pain around my heart; the acid bite of betrayal and guilt dulled by the first hint of drunkenness.

I can admit to myself now, I suppose, that I was looking for some kind of redemption by hanging around the X-men; figured maybe some of their goodness would rub off on me, non?

I know I'm going to wind up in hell one fine day; I don't even care about that anymore. I earned it, oui? Still I had begun to think, to hope, that I could make something of my life before then. Nothing going to balance the scales when it comes to the Morlocks but I thought maybe, just maybe, I could stop being part of the problem and become part of the solution.

I've seen so much bad shit and I've been to too many dark places; seen and felt and dealt out too much pain already. I'm tired of it, tired of this gutter living. I wanted to reach for something better; even if I failed, even if all I'm ever going to be is a thief and a liar, I wanted to at least meet my maker and say I tried to be better.

No one told this Cajun the odds were stacked against him already though; nobody told me that I was screwed before I even tried.

I rub at my eyes; shoving down my nose the shades I wear to protect against any mutie-haters in the club. I light another cigarette and look over the people in this club; all these faceless goodtime guys and gals. I have this weird urge to just take off the glasses and let them see my eyes. I want to stand up on this here table and confess, right here and right now, to this bunch of strangers.

Allors mes braves, here stands Remy LeBeau: mutant, devil eyed gutter born prince of thieves, and almost Marauder. Betrayer and betrayed, con artiste and conned, deceiver and deceived, husband and adulterer, son and exile. Here I am: now someone tell me, what I'm supposed to do? Someone tell me whether this is it or if I can be better than the loser I see in the mirror because I'm fucked if I know what's right and what's wrong.

I want to stand up and be counted but I just sit here drinking myself numb. I've spent my entire existence either in the gutter or the shadows and it's the hardest habit to break. I've been standing in the dark with my nose pressed up to the glass looking in for so many years I've stopped noticing; I'm not even sure I want the things I think I want.

Sometimes I just want to go to bed at night and feel safe in my own skin for once. I want to close my eyes and see something other than blood and poison behind my eyelids.

There's a femme across the club, standing on the edge of the dance floor; she's been watching me awhile now. I can feel her eyes on me as I drag on my cigarette and watch the couples on the dance floor with shaded eyes. The femme reminds me of Belle I realise, once I've given her the once over. She's got the sweet face of a golden haired angel and bedroom eyes thick with kohl. I smile.

How long has it been since I allowed myself to think on Belle? Years, it's been years. I just went and sliced her out of my heart the night I was banished, more or less. Hell I think I've been bleeding from that wound for the last five years.

Five years; it's been five years since my banishment and I hadn't even realised it. Eh, I've got so many gaping, infected wounds on my soul that I don't even feel the loss of her anymore.

Shit what does that say about me? Belle and me were supposed to be forever; that femme was my closest friend since I was a pup and I can't remember the last time I gave her a thought. Don't know that I could even recall her face if it weren't for the fille across the club watching me with Belle's eyes.

It's hard to remember sometimes that once upon a time I used to believe in something good. I used to believe in happily ever after and that family stood by one another. All that seems a long time ago; the hope is still there but the reality drags me down into the pit over and over again.

I wonder what the X-men would do if they ever found out they'd let a mutant Judas live under their roof and eat at the table with them, let alone share in their 'dream' for the last five months? I wonder will I ever be brave enough to find out?

I turn back to the glass of bourbon and the two-thirds full bottle; is this all I have left to me then? Just the blood and the pain and the guilt like a pit of ice and vipers in my head? I tried to destroy Remy LeBeau to become something better, but the crimes are going to stay with me even here with the X-men. Lord have mercy on my soul (what's left of it) but I don't know that I can ever look Stormy in the eyes again.

'Hello gorgeous, are you new in town?'

It's only last second restraint that stops me whipping a card out of my pocket and sending it flying into the blonde femme's face as she comes up alongside my booth. Mon dieu, I didn't even see her moving towards me.

I look up at the femme in her tres bohemian beret and faux snake skin pants that look poured on; the off the shoulder red silk shirt a splash of colour in all the smoke and shadows of the club.

'Pardon?' I ask struggling to present only a smiling mask to this femme. 'Apologies did you say something?' It's reflex alone that makes me hide my accent without a thought.

The fillie smiles at me, a flash of white in her painted mouth, 'I'm Shandi; I haven't seen you around here before. Are you new in town?'

I smile at the woman; weirdly disappointed that all I hear out of her mouth is a broad New Yorker accent. So like Belle; bold, brassy, conscious of her sexuality and not afraid to use it as the weapon it is, and yet looking up at this woman I'm just reminded of how very, very far away I am from Nawlins and from the life I never had the chance to live with my Belle-chere.

'Been in town a while now, new to this here club though.' I tell the femme with a smile, altering the accent just a little and allowing some honey drawl into it; I just hate sounding like a New Yorker. The femme will be able to tell I'm southern but not that I'm Cajun, which gives me some anonymity.

I look up at the femme through my shades and give her one of my best come hither smiles. I didn't come out looking for this but I suppose it beats drinking myself stupid alone.

'Name's James,' I purr, lying without a thought, as I reach out for her hand and cradle it in my own with practiced nonchalance, 'Tell me Shandi, do you dance?'

Shandi laughs, 'Well hon, I thought you'd never ask.'

I rise from the booth, still clasping her hand in mine. I flash her a bright and completely false smile as we walk onto the dance floor. If I close my eyes and concentrate I can pretend that the jazz is played by people who know how to put their souls into the music and the woman grinding against me is not some Brooklyn slut but my wife; my Deadly Nightshade.

We dance most of the night away; it's a better high than the one I'd get out of a bottle of bourbon I suppose. The music is hot and the femme in my arms is hotter. There's no need for pointless talking, no need to pretend, no need to choke on the guilt I thought I'd out run. No need to lie to people I'd hoped to never have reason to lie to. No, tonight is just tonight.

Or maybe that's the lie? Maybe I've been lying so long that the deceits are the only truth I have left to me? Everything is a lie in the end because I know deep down, that I'm already damned. I'm just binding my time like I always do until my day of judgement.

* * *

I'm feeling decidedly fragile when I make it back to the mansion around dawn. Slipping out of Shandi's bed had been simplicity itself. It was the fight with myself whether or not to go back to le maison at all that took it outta me.

I'm working on walking a more or less straight line across the grounds towards the maison as the first rays of sun come up over the steep roof and cannonades of the mansion when I realise I'm being watched.

'Fun date, Cajun?'

Logan smirks at me around the cigar clamped between his teeth as he leans against the trunk of a tree. I blink at him as I try to think that through; it's too damn early for difficult questions. In the end I just shrug and paste a jackass grin onto my face.

'Had better, had worse, mon ami.'

Logan snorts, 'Yer oughta keep outta 'Ro's way til yer sobered up some, Gumbo. If yer know what's good fer yer.'

'Eh?'

I know it's not the most articulate of responses but I have no idea what the hairy lil' midget is going on about. What does Stormy have to be mad at me about? That she knows about anyway, I add, shoving the tide of guilt and grief down under my hangover.

Logan shakes his head looking more friendly and amused than I've ever seen him, least when he's talking to me anyway.

'Yer were supposed to take night watch duty last night, Gumbo. Cyke's pissed at yer for bailin' and 'Ro's pissed at yer cuz she's the one that had to cover fer yer,' he quirks a grizzled eyebrow, which makes him look like a squinting miniature bear, 'yer bein' her 'partner' an' all.'

'Night watch duty; what night watch duty?' I parrot stupidly. I don't know what the homme is on about. There's a night watch in this place? That's news to me, and since when was I on any duty roster?

Logan is watching me curiously and I don't like; I prefer it when the homme be growling at me, least that way he's not likely to poke his nose where it's not wanted.

'Yer don't have a clue in yer pretty little head about team work do yer, Gumbo?' his blue eyes turn shrewd, 'How long yer been lone-wolfin' it?'

'Je suis desole mon ami, but dis be a conversation where I t'ink I missed somet'ing non? I am no wolf, but a mutant, oui?'

Logan rolls his eyes and the action surprises me, 'Yer and me ain't never talked much, have we?'

I arch an eyebrow, 'Pardon?'

'Talk, Gumbo, talk.' Logan growls softly, 'Yer still wasted ain't yer?'

I cock my head to the side and end up getting blasted by a ray of sunlight. I put up an arm to shield my eyes vaguely wondering what I went and did with my shades. This is getting a little too surreal for me. Why is the mangy Canuck trying to talk to me now, for God's sake? I shake my head, which does not help _at all_. Shit I think I've liquefied my brains.

'Mon dieu, I not got de energy for dis shit.' I mutter and try to step around Wolverine. The homme catches my arm.

'Nope, yer ain't going anywhere, Gambit. Yer an' me are gonna have a conversation.'

'Je regrette m'sieur but I'm not feeling much like talkin' right now.' I try to disengage from his grip but the homme just yanks on my arm and suddenly I find myself on my ass in the grass wondering how I got there.

'Yer ain't gonna to be talkin' Gumbo; yer flap them gums of yers too much as is. Nah, yer gonna sit there and listen. Figure yer need some practice with that.' Wolverine squats down beside me before I can decide what I'm going to do about this situation. I glare at the man and he just looks back at me blue eyes calm as a husky's.

Well shit, don't this just beat all, non?

I twist my lips into a snarl of my own, 'I'll sit, don promise I'll listen. Don see how you can make me either, hein?'

'Don't push me Gambit, yer won't like the results.'

'You gon talk homme or you gon threaten? 'Cuz I got t'ings to do, me.' I sneer trying to stand.

Wolverine hauls me back down again and his claws are at my neck before I even realise there's a card beginning to glow between my fingers.

'Yer got five seconds to drop the card, Gumbo, or I'll drop yer.'

I draw the charge back in and let the card drop to the grass, raising my hands in surrender. As much as the homme is pissing me off I don't want to fight. Least not while my head is pounding like the bastard child of a jackhammer and a woodpecker.

Wolverine seems to catch a clue and retracts his claws. He watches me with those blue eyes of his and I bite down on any number of choice things I could say.

'How long yer been runnin' without a Guild, Cajun?'

Maybe it's the fact that I just spent the whole night wallowing in my loss and poking at the old scars left by my banishment, or maybe it's just the damn hang-over, but whatever the reason I react in the worst possible way to the question; I don't hide my surprise. I know from the flare of triumph in Wolverine's eyes that he can smell the shock and suspicion in my scent, confirming the truth.

There's nothing I can say to cover my mistake so I don't say anything. Silence is not much of a defence but it's the only one I've got at the moment. Wolverine is watching me and I concentrate on giving him nothing but the mask.

He starts to chuckle, pleased that he's riled me and, mon dieu, the urge to kick him in the teeth is almost over-whelming. Still, I've got more sense and more self-control than that.

'Been talkin' to some of my contacts; yer got Chuck fooled, he can't find a trace of yer beyond rumour, but then Chuck don't know the same players I do.' Logan's teeth flash in a grin and it's cliché oui, but he really does look like a wolf right now. Still he's not a patch on Creed so I'm not impressed; not much least ways.

'The New Orleans Guild is small, best in the business, but small.' Logan cocks his head. 'Figure I could put a name to yer if I wanted.'

I stare at him and he stares at me; time counts down, the sun continues to rise and the birds and bees and all that other nature shit come to life around us. Me and the Wolverine just sit there, eyeball to eyeball for what seems like forever. Then I smile and laugh because damn, wasn't this what I wanted? To finally get found out so I don't have to shoulder the guilt and the secrets any longer.

'Is dat right?' I say and I realise I haven't sounded like this in a long time; I can't stop the venom or the hiss of my words. I'm still too raw to hide behind my dumb white trash act. 'Go on den, _tell me_, who do you t'ink I am?'

I bare my teeth into the face of the homme's surprise; don't think he expected me to laugh at him. Still I'm not joking; I want to hear what the Wolverine thinks of me because I sure as hell don't know who or what I am anymore.

Logan shakes his grizzled head, 'Ain't gonna say,' he tells me and I frown. What the fuck is this homme's game? If he don't mean to expose me what the hell is playing at?

'Yer on the run from something ain't yer Gambit? Ain't no good reason for an arrogant sonofabitch like yer to be hangin' with the X-men less yer looking for a place to hide.'

I say nothing, just wait. I work on keeping my breathing even and my pulse steady; my muscles relaxed and easy. I don't know whether I want to run or not. Maybe it's fatalism or maybe it's just the hangover but I really want to know how this is going to pan out.

Logan nods as if my silence is all the confirmation he needs. He gets to his feet and looks down on me.

'Ain't gonna say one word, Gumbo. Yer ain't the first crook the X-men have taken in, and yer've played straight with us so far.' He frowns, 'But listen up Gambit, this ain't a free ride. Yer got people up in that house who expect yer to act like yer part of this team. Yer ever start playin' any of those people for fools I'm gonna come down on yer like yer ain't gonna believe.' He sneers, 'Yer stink of guilt and I don't like it. Fuck with the X-men, or try and run out on us, and I'll hunt yer down, yer hear me?'

For a long moment I just stare at the homme; the sun slanting around his stumpy silhouette sharp enough to blind. My blood's gone cold in my veins; oui I hear him loud and clear.

'D'accord mon ami, I hear you crystal clear.' I say quietly.

'Good; I'm gonna be watchin' Gumbo and yer fast mouth ain't foolin' me at all.' The homme stares at me for another long moment before lighting a cigar and turning his back on me, heading deeper into the woods.

For a few minutes I just sit in the dewy grass and try to get my head together. I'm not real sure what to think or even if I want to think. Rubbing a hand over my face and shoving the bangs from my eyes I drag myself up. I head for the mansion and try to ignore the feeling of Logan's eyes on my back the whole way.

Mon dieu, I need to find this duty roster thing; at the very least I'm going to need to do some careful editing of what's on it, oui? There's no way I'm getting stuck on night watch duty. I mean what does mon Capitan think he be asking here? I've already been catapulted into space, fought a war in Genosha, and gone toe to toe with Magneto and his Acolytes, there is no way I'm giving up my free nights for this gig as well.

As I'm heading towards the house I look up at the attic window to ma belle Stormy's room. I frown. Damn it. I'm going to have to make it up to her.

I find the roster in the end, hanging up on the wall in the War Room (don't know how I never noticed it before). It's easy enough to make the necessary changes; even manage to make it look like Cyclops' writing. Later on there are a few people who ask why my name has replaced Stormy's on every one of her night watch shifts for the next month, but neither Cyclops or Stormy say anything at all.

Cyclops don't even call me on tampering with his roster for that matter; figure the man appreciates me taking the time out to punish myself for misbehaving, non?

Stormy don't say a word to me about missing my shift or the new roster either but on the first night shift I take she sits in with me anyway. We spend most of the night making snide comments about teammates and gossiping (well I make snide comments and Stormy tries to pretend she don't think it's funny). I decide then that maybe this working as a team stuff isn't so bad after all.

C'est vrai, maybe I don't know how to be part of a team, or hell, a family anymore, but I figure I can re-learn the trick of it pretty quick. Probably just in time for this new family of mine to discover the truth about me and throw me out, but hey, that's just the way the cards got to fall, non?

C'est la vie, I'm just going to keep playing the hand I been dealt until the white faced devil calls in his marker. I can think of plenty worse places to wait out fate than here with the X-men, and it's not like I have anyplace else to go or anyone waiting for me when I get there.

So I'll just stay here with my Stormy and these X-men a spell and make the best of it until the day my luck runs out. I've got nothing better to do; been a villain already so I might as well try my hand at heroism, right?

Mon dieu, it's like any good Cajun will tell you: laissez le bon temps rouler…….

……..We're all going to hell in the end, might as well enjoy the journey.

Au revoir mes braves, it's been fun, but it be time now for this here thief to bid you all adieu!

* * *

_To anyone and everyone who has read this story; thank you for reading what I have written and I can only hope that you have enjoyed the journey too. _

_Spikey44_

_February 2009_


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